The Making of the Sympathetic Imagination: Transformations of Sympathy in British Eighteenth-Century Philosophy and Fiction 9783110625318, 9783110624014

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Roman Alexander Barton The Making of the Sympathetic Imagination

Transformationen der Antike Herausgegeben von Hartmut Böhme, Horst Bredekamp, Johannes Helmrath, Christoph Markschies, Ernst Osterkamp, Dominik Perler, Ulrich Schmitzer

Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Frank Fehrenbach, Niklaus Largier, Martin Mulsow, Wolfgang Proß, Ernst A. Schmidt, Jürgen Paul Schwindt

Band 61

De Gruyter

Roman Alexander Barton

The Making of the Sympathetic Imagination Transformations of Sympathy in British Eighteenth-Century Philosophy and Fiction

De Gruyter

The publication of this volume was made possible through the support of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft, using funds provided to the Collaborative Research Center 644 »Transformations of Antiquity«.

ISBN 978-3-11-062401-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-062531-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-062418-2 ISSN 1864-5208 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939967 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover illustration: Martin Zech, Bremen Logo »Transformationen der Antike«: Karsten Asshauer – SEQUENZ Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

»Is there any thing you admire, so fair as Friendship? or any thing so charming as a generous Action? What wou’d it be therefore, if all Life were in reality but one continu’d Friendship, and cou’d be made one such intire Act?« — Lord Shaftesbury

To my friend and colleague Thomas Micklich

Preface The transformative development of Moral Sentimentalism in the Scottish Enlightenment was to a surprising extent the making of the sympathetic imagination. This concept emerged and had its greatest momentum in the Age of Sensibility, when it formed the pivot of ethics as well as poetics. Despite the many differences between works that, from antiquity to the early eighteenth century, have commented on sympathy, there is a noticeable continuity in the understanding of human sympathising and its cosmological, moral or aesthetic implications. This continuous historical line was disrupted by the philosophies of the Scottish empiricists, who came to regard sympathy more and more exclusively as a communication as well as evaluation of affects based on propositional imagination. By so doing, they defined what, in our time, we mean when we say that we sympathise with a certain cause or feel for our fictional other. The concern of this book is with the history of sympathy’s transformations, insofar as it bridges literature and moral philosophy, in the British eighteenth century. To point out the significance of this era for the making of the sympathetic imagination, I have treated the respective theories in their wider intellectual context and attempted to always keep in view the longue durée of ancient knowledge about sympathy and how writers transformatively engaged with this longstanding tradition. For the sake of clarity, this study deals, for the greatest part, with the more original and seminal eighteenth-century authors who considered sympathy as ethically and poetically relevant, rather than with lesser-known writers of the period who had a shorterlived, although perhaps more immediate influence on the reading public in Britain. The authors in question, some of whom were connected by personal ties, shared strong philosophical interests in sympathy and on that account formed a specific intellectual network. My book does not however turn a blind eye to the impact of more popular genres altogether. Indeed, it claims that the sentimental novel in the latter half of the eighteenth century is an important site of negotiating the significance of the sympathetic imagination for art and morality. Very self-consciously, these tear-jerking narratives examine the conditions under which fiction can arouse the various human emotions and passions in its readers. At the same time, they critically assess mankind’s ability to pass impartial moral judgment through the imagination of complex interrelations of fellow-feeling. Novelists such as Oliver Goldsmith, Henry Mackenzie or William Godwin thus contributed much to the concept’s successive development as well as its eminence at the threshold of British Romanticism. This book presents the outcome of my engagement in the project »Sympathy. Transformations and Functions between 1600 and 1800« which was part of the larger network of research Transformationen der Antike (SFB 644) at Humboldt University Berlin funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG). I have worked on this study under the stimulating direction of Helga Schwalm, for whose continuing encouragement I am very thankful, and I am further indebted to the intellectual guid-

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Preface

ance of Verena Lobsien, the second head of our project. In the five years and more that this work has been in progress, my friend and colleague Thomas Micklich has shown me the most generous support and provided me with much food for thought. The memories of our joint readings, discussions and travels I hold close to my heart and thus this book stands dedicated to him. In this place, I would also like to acknowledge the help received from my friend and colleague Alexander Klaudies, with whom I have worked in close collaboration over nearly four years. Finally, my gratitude is due to the DFG for funding my participation in many international conferences as well as the publication of this book. I had full access to the resources of Staatsbibliothek Berlin, Bodleian Library Oxford, The British Library in London and have received much assistance by Richard Samways, the librarian at St. Giles House, the seat of the Earls of Shaftesbury in Dorset. The greatest debt I owe to my family and my best friend Hannes Puchta for inspiring me with cheerfulness during the darker hours of writing my thesis. Some thoughts developed in chapter four of this book, together with some material from chapter five, originate in an article published in a volume co-edited by me and titled Sympathy in Transformation: Dynamics between Rhetorics, Poetics and Ethics. In addition, some claims made in chapter six have found their way into my contribution to the proceedings of the Shaftesbury Conference held at St. Giles House in the summer of 2015. Roman Alexander Barton Freiburg im Breisgau Autumn 2019

Table of Contents Preface ................................................................................................................................. VII 1.

INTRODUCTION

Transformations towards a Notion of Sympathetic Imagination ........................... 1 2.

SYMPATHY RENDERED MORAL

Lord Shaftesbury and the Ancient Traditions of Sympathy ................................. 13 2.1 What Strikes a Sympathetic Chord: Reading the Stoics, Casaubon and Whichcote ................................................ 17 2.2 Sympathy Reflected, or: How to become a Friend of Mankind ................. 28 2.3 The Moral Effects of Fiction: Sympathetic Imagination avant la lettre ........ 39 3.

SYSTEMS OF SYMPATHY

The Rise of the Sympathetic Imagination in Scottish Empiricism ..................... 49 3.1 »What’s Hecuba to us, or we to Hecuba?«: Sympathy in Francis Hutcheson’s Empiricist Perspective ........................... 54 3.2 »Fictions of Sympathy«: David Hume on the Sympathetic Imagination of the Moral Triad ............ 64 4.

FROM ETHICS TO POETICS OF SYMPATHY

The Three Dimensions of the Sympathetic Imagination ..................................... 81 4.1 Narrative and Theatrical Forms of Fellow-Feeling: Adam Smith on the Sympathies of Readers and Theatregoers ................... 84 4.2 Imaginative Expansions of Sympathy in Ideal Presence: Lord Kames on Sympathetic Reading and Writing ........................................ 98 5.

NARRATING SYMPATHY & SYMPATHETIC NARRATION

Sympathetic Imagination in the Man-of-Feeling Novel ..................................... 115 5.1 From Laughter to Tears: Oliver Goldsmith on the Propriety and Impropriety of Fellow-Feeling ......................................................................... 118 5.2 From Fool to Friend: Henry Brooke and Henry Mackenzie on the Virtue of Sympathies ........................................................................................ 130 5.3 The ›New‹ Man of Feeling: Laurence Sterne and William Godwin on Sympathetic Imaginations of the Poetic Mind ............................................. 147

X 6.

Table of Contents SYMPATHY LOST AND REGAINED

William Godwin’s Perspective on the Man of Feeling ........................................ 157 6.1 Sympathy under the Lens of Rationalism ...................................................... 159 6.2 Reasonable Fellow-Feeling: Godwin’s ›Sentimentalism‹ Revisited ............ 174 BIBLIOGRAPHY ................................................................................................................. 193 INDEX OF NAMES ............................................................................................................ 207 INDEX OF SUBJECTS ........................................................................................................ 209

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

Transformations towards a Notion of Sympathetic Imagination The following study is dedicated to the genesis of an ethico-aesthetic key concept of the Scottish Enlightenment. To David Hume, Adam Smith and others, the so-called sympathetic imagination meant a certain propositional faculty by which we partake in feelings that lie beyond our current emotional state. The affections of persons remote from us thus become the object of our fellow-feeling, a fellow-feeling which ever constitutes moral approbation: sympathies that presuppose an imaginative extrapolation of our fellow’s situation necessarily indicate the propriety of the affections to which they respond. Such sympathetic imagination or sympathy, as it is called in abbreviation already by Adam Smith, defines our modern understanding of what it means to sympathise with a political party or to find a fictional character more or less sympathetic. This is a far cry from what the term sympathy or sumpatheia originally stood for. The notion that sympathy necessarily builds on an imaginative proposition or projection, due to which it is morally and aesthetically relevant, is the outcome of a long line of transformations from ancient times all the way up to the age of Hume. This book aims to tell part of the transformative history of sympathy, focussing on its decisive stages in the eighteenth century, and so describe the making of the sympathetic imagination against the backdrop of profound cultural change in the domains of philosophy, poetics and fiction. The concept’s emergence in the eighteenth century has heretofore met with only little attention from literary scholars and intellectual historians alike. Traditionally, it is regarded as a key theorem not of Enlightenment but Romantic literature or criticism and, as such, it has predominantly been associated with the work of William Hazlitt.1 Though scholars have generally acknowledged that he was not its originator, Hazlitt has been heralded »as its most imposing advocate.«2 John M. Bullitt has gone as far as to suggest that this critic’s interpretation of the concept is the very pivot of English Romanticism.3 What did Hazlitt mean by sympathetic imagination? For him, it is quite simply the ability to transport ourselves into an emotional state distinct from our current one by the power of the fancy. He further claimed that it entails _____________ 1 2

3

A notable exception to the rule is Ades (1961), who credits the Romantic essayist Charles Lamb for having conceived an aesthetics of sympathy. Cf. Baker (1962), 147: »If, then, the doctrine of the sympathetic imagination was not original with Hazlitt, it was none the less the anchor of his later thought on politics and arts and morals, and in the history of critical theory he stands as its most imposing advocate.« Similar opinions can be found in Uphaus (1985), esp. 99, McCarthy (1997), esp. 33, and Fairclough (2013), 129–133. Fairclough and in particular Whale (2000) have pointed out that Hazlitt, rather than just celebrating the concept, critically examined it and acknowledged its moral limits. Cf. Bullitt (1945). For a discussion of how this view helped define ›high‹ Romanticism in midtwentieth-century literary scholarship, cf. Natarajan (2005), esp. 5.

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Introduction

certain identificatory processes: it makes us enter into a future or alternative self.4 As Walter Jackson Bate has shown, this notion of sympathetic imagination was further elaborated on by John Keats, who considered it a crucial element of what he termed negative capability.5 Keats’ declaration that »if a Sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the Gravel«,6 which Bate cited as the prime example of Romantic sympathetic imagination,7 continues to shape the understanding of the concept to this day. Recently, it has had a flourishing career in animal and contemporary literary studies after John Maxwell Coetzee’s 1999 novel The Lives of Animals brought it back to the centre of attention.8 As a means not only of transgressing the border between subject and object, but annihilating the self and so ultimately cancelling out even the human-animal border, the sympathetic imagination has once again become a pet subject of criticism. Nor is Coetzee the only artist who has reflected on the subject in the more recent past. A series of video installations by the Californian artist Diana Thater titled The Sympathetic Imagination and exhibited in museums across the United States of America aimed to make the spectator feel with animals by transporting him to their natural habitat and turning him into an intimate onlooker.9 As the sympathetic imagination is thus meeting with renewed attention these days, the story of its making in the Age of Sensibility may perhaps be of interest to a wider audience outside of eighteenth-century studies. The latest artistic approaches to the subject, which above all negotiate the relation of humans and beasts, have their perhaps earliest precedent not in the work of Keats or (also a likely candidate) William Wordsworth,10 but in a poem by Robert Burns, the Scottish national poet who lived and died in the eighteenth century.11 _____________ 4

5 6 7 8

9

10

11

The sympathetic imagination certainly lies at the heart of Hazlitt’s seminal 1805 Essay on the Principles of Human Action, 231, where it is defined as an »imaginary anticipation either of our own feelings or those of others«. Whether the object of such sympathy in fancy is our future self or another person makes no difference, as in either case the sympathising mind »constructs an artificial idea« of the feeling in question, cf. ibid., 230. Thus for Hazlitt, the sympathetic imagination is a creative faculty. Cf. Bate (1963), 255–263. Keats, »Letter to Benjamin Bailey, November 22, 1817«, in: Keats’s Poetry and Prose, 102–104, here 103. Cf. Bate (1945), 144. Cf. Coetzee, The Lives of Animals, esp. 35: »There are no bounds to the sympathetic imagination.« The enthusiastic embrace of the sympathetic imagination here voiced by the character Elizabeth Costello plays out in this and other novels by Coetzee in a way that explores the limits of the concept. This topic has been discussed numerous times in the recent past, cf. e.g. Durrant (2006), Mascia-Lees/Sharpe (2006), Su (2011), 42–54, Sellbach (2012) and Heister (2014). Cf. LACMA (2015), MCA (2016) and Thather, The Sympathetic Imagination. The latter is not a catalogue to the exhibition only, rather it presents a larger retrospective of the artist’s work which, as it appears, is chiefly devoted to the subject of sympathy. Of late, Wordsworth’s approach to the concept of sympathetic imagination has received ample attention, cf. e.g. Richey (2002), Yousef (2006), Brennan (2015) and also Potkay (2012), esp. 97, where he argued that a self-annihilating sympathy is relevant to Wordsworthian ethics. Schwalm (2015), 172, has pointed to the similarity of Kames and Wordsworth in this respect. Thanks is due to Helga Schwalm for pointing out this fascinating poem to me.

Introduction

3

Written in Scots dialect, this poem versifies how Burns destroyed the nest of a mouse when ploughing his fields. It is accordingly titled »To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785«. When he enters into the perspective of the mouse, the speaker realises that he has brought misery to a fellow living being to which he is originally connected by »Nature’s social union«.12 He is sensible of the animal’s perceptions and ideas (»Thou saw«, »Thou thought«)13 and so feels with this tiny creature: »O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!«14 An imaginary change of places gives expression to a sympathy between man and mouse. It appears then that the sympathetic imagination, also in its function of eroding the humananimal border, traces back to eighteenth-century Scotland.15 The suggestion that this concept originates in the Scottish Enlightenment has first been put forward by Walter Jackson Bate. His seminal 1945 essay is the point of departure for my study. Bate showed that thinkers like Adam Smith, Alexander Gerard or James Beattie believed that sympathy, insofar as it surfaces in the subjective mind, is largely dependent upon imagination (which Bate does not define more closely). More importantly, the essay points out that the sympathetic imagination has little or nothing to do with empathy, which is a more recent term.16 As it builds on the understanding that all sensitive creatures or at least all human beings are interconnected by sympathy beforehand, a supposition that originates in ancient philosophical tenets, the sympathetic imagination is (at least potentially) transsubjective. Ultimately, many Scottish writers of the period agreed, imaginations which allow us to feel with or for others are founded on a general sympathising and are thus truly sympathetic. The doctrine of empathy or Einfühlung that originates with the German scholars Rudolf Hermann Lotze, Theodor Lipps and others17 is, as Bate suggested, much more radically subjective since it hinges on a projection of the subject’s own feelings and sentiments onto another. However, and this Bate paid no attention to, already in the eighteenth century the notion of a sympathetically united cosmos slowly dwindled out of sight. As a result, some Enlightenment authors found it difficult to draw the line between imaginations that answer to the common cause of fellow-feeling and such that are the effect of an uncommon, subjective sensibility _____________ 12 13 14 15

16 17

Burns, »To a Mouse«, 138. Ibid., 140. Ibid. 138. Despite his self-fashioning as a ploughman poet, Burns associated with leading figures of the Scottish Enlightenment such as Hugh Blair, who held strong views on sympathy, cf. McIlvanney (2005) and in particular Blair’s discussion of the sympathetic imagination in Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 530–531. Cf. Bate (1945), 145, 163–164. More recently, the history of the German concept of Einfühlung has been studied by Fontius (2010), who provides a helpful overview, and Nowak (2011). The latter discussed the term in the context of German hermeneutics since Friedrich Schleiermacher and suggested that empathy is really less of a projection than a reformulation of subjective knowledge through the eyes of another. Still, this is much different from sympathetic imagination as conceived in the Age of Sensibility, which was founded on a transsubjective notion of sympathy.

4

Introduction

only. For want of a better term, the latter as well as the former they refer to as sympathy. Feeling into rather than with or for others is what the attention of critics and novelists turned to later in the century. Building on recent scholarship concerned with the multifaceted history of the concept of sympathy,18 my study takes into account its transformations in the eighteenth century to investigate its increasing dependence on the fancy as a propositional faculty and thus the making of the sympathetic imagination proper. In so doing, my book puts into perspective Bate’s charting of notions that came to be associated with sympathetic imagination in Enlightenment moral philosophy and criticism, namely moral sense, benevolence and sensibility. The following attempts to explain upon which grounds or to which ends these conjunctions take place and how sympathy, or the sympathetic imagination respectively, is transformed in the process. Prior to the eighteenth century, the term sympathy carried none of the above designations. Rather, it was used to describe a cosmological principle expressing the correspondence, coherence and unity of all things. As such it was appropriated by the early Enlightenment philosopher Anthony Ashley-Cooper, the third Earl of Shaftesbury, as my second chapter shows at length. Following his ancient Stoic predecessors, he argued that cosmic sympathy is grounded in the logos of nature. We human subjects thus apprehend it by means of rational (co-)affections which guide our realisation of the natural laws that govern the cosmos. Shaftesbury’s interpretation of Stoicism is transformative only insofar as it establishes sympathy also as a moral term. This is achieved by correlating it with concepts originating in Christian ethics, which conversely are recast in the light of ancient traditions of sumpatheia. My study analyses this Shaftesburian way of proceeding and shows that, as a result, the Enlightenment philosopher conceptualises the so-called moral sense as a reflectionbased sympathising with the sentient body of mankind.19 Meanwhile, sympathies that respond to imaginative propositions have little moral relevance for Shaftesbury. He explicitly denies them the ability to inspire a sympathetic relationship with the species and so produce ethical feelings. Thus, when the Scottish empiricists trusted the sympathetic imagination to give rise to moral sentiments, they turned their back on Shaftesburian philosophy, which was still steeped in traditions of sympathy reaching back to antiquity. My third chapter shows that a notion of moral sense founded upon universal sympathy was still at the centre of the ethical theory promoted by Francis Hutcheson, the ›father‹ of the Scottish Enlightenment. However, under the influence of empiricism, Hutcheson put forward a radical redefinition of sympathy in his epistemology, a redefinition that marks a decisive watershed in the term’s history. In stark contrast to Shaftesbury, Hutcheson assumed but a ›horizontal‹ reality to which the subjective faculties of exterior and interior perception have immediate access. The _____________ 18 19

Cf. Lamb (2009), Lobis (2015) and the respective volume in the series Oxford Philosophical Concepts edited by Schliesser (2015). This is not a metaphor: mankind is here considered a sentient being like any of its members and can thus become the object of fellow-feeling, cf. ch. 2 in this book, 38 and passim.

Introduction

5

›vertical‹ connection of all beings in a fixed and immutable order of nature faded out of sight and thus sympathy ceased to be a cosmological principle first and foremost. It now received a new foundation in intersubjectivity. Hutcheson contributed much to this reconstitution in that he proposed a novel epistemology of fellow-feeling which gives an associationist and semiotic explanation of the phenomenon. Developing these thoughts further, his younger contemporary David Hume conceived of an epistemological system of sympathy built on the assumption that sympathies have a bearing on all human passions. On that note, my study addresses the much-debated question whether or not Hume is a moral sense philosopher and argues that he reconceives ethical feeling as a complex, triadic relation of sympathies: only the impartial third, who feels with a sympathetic interrelation of two others, attains a moral sentiment. This ›thirdness‹ is constituted by an imaginative extrapolation of the moral action’s intersubjective dimension. To sympathise impartially, the moral spectator must resort to the imagination in its propositional function. His fancy needs to determine, firstly, the primary motivation of the acting party, secondly, how the other is affected by it and, finally, to what extent these latter affections, which rebound on the feelings of the moral agent, determine his conduct in their turn. My reading of A Treatise of Human Nature thus concludes that Hume is the author of the sympathetic imagination proper, a concept which allows him to move away from moral sense philosophy as well as ancient traditions of sumpatheia. As a result, he embraces an intersubjectively oriented ethics of sentimentalism. The sympathetic imagination’s migration from the field of moral philosophy to that of aesthetics occurs chiefly in the works of Adam Smith and Lord Kames. My fourth chapter explains that in The Theory of Moral Sentiments and Elements of Criticism respectively, these authors make out three dimensions of the said faculty. First, both Smith and Kames assume that the propositional imagination may provide us with an epistemological access to the affections of others. Put differently, it may allow us to feel with our fellows. While Smith claims that any such sympathy requires a cohesive narrative informing us of the feeling’s cause, without which there can be no imaginary change of places, Kames argues that sympathetic imagination entails a quasivisual or dramatic impression called ideal presence. The two authors accordingly differ on the point of genre poetics and this I discuss in some detail. Systematically speaking, Kames believes that sympathetic imagination, insofar as it allows us to feel with our fellows, is both propositional and sensory, whereas Smith finds it is propositional only. Secondly, both philosophers point out that imaginative propositions may tempt us to sympathise with affections we assume the other must be sensitive of in his situation, although this is not so in reality. We thus feel for rather than with our fellow, as is the case with second-hand embarrassment or sympathy for fictional characters. Thirdly, and finally, Kames supposes in a ground-breaking argument, we may persuade ourselves not only to change roles with the other, but to be him entirely. Such feeling into rather than for or with another entails a kind of selfannihilation which only men and women of sensibility are capable of. Above all, Kames suggests, it allows the sentimental actor or writer to create fictional personages with realistic emotions and passions. This third species of the said propositional

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Introduction

faculty, in fact a sympathetic creative imagination, became virulent in Romanticism. Both Alexander Gerard’s notion of the artistic genius and John Keats’ concept of negative capability draw on it. Chapter five offers a literary-historical reflection of the sympathetic imagination in that it puts forward interpretations of a group of novels which traditionally have been associated with Moral Sentimentalism, namely Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield, Henry Brooke’s The Fool of Quality, Henry Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling, Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey and William Godwin’s Fleetwood: or, The New Man of Feeling. According to a seminal essay by Ronald Crane, these five novels, in making use of the character type of the man of feeling, contribute to a certain ›genealogy‹ which reaches back to seventeenth-century Latitudinarianism. By contrast, I argue that the ancestral line of the whining male hero of sensibility is much older than Crane acknowledged, whereas the man of feeling popular in mid-eighteenthcentury fiction is more often (and more especially) the brainchild of the Scottish Enlightenment. Protagonists such as Dr. Primrose or Harley epitomise an ethics based on moral (fellow-)feelings. This is not to say that the above are mere thesis novels. Rather, they self-reflectively explore the ethical and aesthetic functions of the sympathetic imagination. Goldsmith indeed proves a disciple of Adam Smith when, in his poetological reflections, he criticises spectatorial sympathy as morally dubious and finds that only a fellow-feeling which grows out of an imaginary change of places is ethically sound. Like the author of The Theory of Moral Sentiments, he suggests a theory of genre that locates sentimentalism firmly in tragedy, not in comedy. The distinction Goldsmith draws between serious sympathy and laughable sensibility, my respective subchapter concludes, is central also to his novel, which fictionalises Smith’s sympathetic imagination of the impartial spectator. Meanwhile, Brooke is doubtful that this propositional faculty is the bedrock of morality. His philosophical novel The Fool of Quality unfavourably contrasts the just man, who embraces his moral sentiments or judgments, from the paragon of undiscriminating benevolence, the good man. Sympathetic imaginations of readers which are engaged on behalf of the latter, the author-narrator asserts in stark contrast to Moral Sentimentalism, are ultimately an expression of pious good will. A more elaborate critique of sentimentalist philosophies is voiced in Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling. Though the novel has an apparent sympathetic appeal, it also showcases that the sensations as well as the imaginations of sympathy can sometimes be immoral. Thus, very much against Brooke and Goldsmith, Mackenzie suggests that neither goodness nor a regard of the approving sympathies of others is sufficiently virtuous. Taking recourse to Shaftesbury’s notion of moral sense, he contradistinguishes virtue from both benevolence and propriety in his fiction. Finally, Sterne and Godwin bring attention to the aesthetic functions of the sympathetic imagination. Their novels emphasise that delicate sensibility, though it is often morally discredited, allows us to feel into the creatures of our own fancy. Such projection of emotions is what characterises the ›new‹ man of feeling, who is thus poetically gifted. This sentimental hero has the world at the command of his imagination and so, Godwin’s novel concludes, he harbours a tendency of despotism.

Introduction

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This ›new‹ sentimentalism is under fierce attack in the 1790s by the figureheads of English Radicalism. Why the rigid rationalist William Godwin, whose moral philosophy was denounced as an ›unfeeling‹ doctrine by his contemporaries, chose to become a writer of sentimental novels is the intriguing question that the sixth and final chapter attempts to answer. Drawing on diary entries and variants to his magnum opus An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, the study shows that Godwin, who initially declared sympathy a morally corrupting force, warmed to the topic as he discussed it with Mary Wollstonecraft, John ›Walking‹ Stewart and others. Godwin’s revision of his novel Caleb Williams, so a comparison of the published with the manuscript ending shows, revaluates sympathy in relation to the central virtue of justice. As an existential fellow-feeling that arises in the immediate presence of a sufferer, it guides the way to political justice equally as much as enlightened reason. However, Godwin remained suspicious of that sympathetic creative imagination which makes us feel into another. Sympathies of the ›new‹ man of feeling with his fellows, whom he creates anew in his fancy, are here condemned as politically problematic. Though Godwin was sceptical towards delicate sensibility, he attempted to bring about just sympathies with the suppressed as an author of sentimental novels. Sympathetic imaginations for the fictional personages, he hoped, would inspire kind feelings with the miserable. Considered as a pivotal concept of Enlightenment philosophy and literature, the sympathetic imagination thus made its perhaps last appearance in the sentimental novels that flowed from Godwin’s pen. My telling of the outlined transformative history of sympathy in the eighteenth century follows a transformation studies approach. As such it is indebted to the seminal collaborative book of Lutz Bergemann, Hartmut Böhme and others. Their methodology provides not only a useful ›toolkit‹ of transformation types, but also a theory of cultural change that pivots on allelopoiesis. This term coined from the Greek allelon (»mutual«) and poiesis (»production«) describes the dynamics of transformations particularly well.20 What the concept points to is that, in any given transformation, an object from the sphere of reference, for instance the Stoic doctrine of sumpatheia, and an object from the sphere of reception, such as a Scottish empiricist notion of sympathy, are mutually productive. One brings about the other and vice versa (A↔B). More specifically, Böhme has discussed this theorem in constructivist terms. His claim is that ancient knowledge (or any other, for that matter) is no stable entity but emerges only in a reciprocal relation with its transformations.21 This means that when, for instance, Adam Smith writes about Stoic sympathy, Stoicism is constructed through the construct of Smithian sentimentalism and the other way around. Both the object of reference and the object of reception are but the product of a transforming agent, be it a person, an institution or an entire discourse. Thus put, the concept of allelopoiesis is a little flawed, however. It is easy to see how a tenet of antiquity is tailored to the needs of a new philosophy, but in what manner repercussions can take place, _____________ 20 21

On the concept of allelopoiesis, cf. Böhme (2011), 8–9, and Bergemann et al. (2011), 43–45. For an overview of transformation types, cf. ibid., 47–54. Cf. Böhme (2011), esp. 13.

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Introduction

unless we suppose them a mere invention of the latter, is inconceivable. Taking the constructivist model seriously means conceding that the said mutual production is not genuine, but only the function of a subjective or discursive construction (B→[A↔B]). In other words, such allelopoiesis is but a fiction of autopoiesis. The implication is that, ultimately, to study transformations does not mean addressing complex historical interrelations, but singular narratives which are entirely self-positing even when they claim to be related to other texts. In collaboration with Thomas Micklich, I have elaborated on this concept of transformation in an attempt to render it tenable and provide my study with a sound methodological basis.22 The objective was to find an alternative theoretical framework that would do justice to the notion of allelopoiesis and allow for a truly mutual relation between objects of reference and reception. In other words, we were in search of a model in which the supposed mutual relation A↔B would not boil down to the monadic perspective of B. There was good reason to suspect such a thing as true reciprocity in transformations. It is a hermeneutic truism that when we survey two texts which address the same matter, we come to comprehend that matter more fully by reading the first in the light of the second and vice versa, thus interpreting the texts through one another. Let us suppose that three interpretations of sympathy by Marcus Aurelius, David Hume and Adam Smith are related in the work of the latter.23 The odds are that Smith, himself addressing the matter of co-affectability,24 read the Stoic understanding of sumpatheia with Humean sympathy and the other way around, thus rendering the transformative relation between the two in his own terms. Put differently, our assumption was that the allelopoiesis of A and B appears only for some C. To conceptualise this further, we took recourse to Semeiotic, the triadic sign theory developed by Charles Sanders Peirce. Speaking with Peirce, »all our thought and knowledge is by signs«25 and so the transformation of that knowledge implies sign process or semiosis. This takes place in triadic sign relations composed of an object A, a representamen or sign B and an interpretant C.26 The sign-aspect B is not to be confused with the sign as a whole, which always necessarily consists of an objectaspect, a sign-aspect and an interpretant-aspect. Nor is the interpretant to be under_____________ 22

23 24

25 26

The following is indebted to our joint talk »Transformation als Semiose – Gibt es eine Hermeneutik der Allelopoiese?« presented at a work group meeting at the collaborative research centre Transformationen der Antike (SFB 644) in November 2014. This is not far-fetched, as Smith counted both Marcus Aurelius and Hume among his precursors. Schliesser (2015), in his »Introduction: On Sympathy«, 9, proposes »co-affectability« as an English equivalent of the Greek sumpatheia. This is indeed a precise translation to which I take recourse when referring to the phenomenon of sympathy more generally. Where interhuman sympathies are concerned, I make use of the synonym preferred by eighteenth-century writers, i.e. fellow-feeling. Peirce, Collected Papers, VIII, 227. The only exception to this rule, the author points out, is immediate perception. Cf. ibid., 232: »I define a Sign as anything which on the one hand is so determined by an Object and on the other hand so determines an idea in a person’s mind, that this latter determination, which I term the Interpretant of the sign, is thereby mediately determined by that Object.«

Introduction

9

stood as an author’s psyche, but rather that aspect of a sign which allows for its epistemic compatibility.27 Only together, object, representamen and interpretant merit the name of sign. The gist of Peirce’s theory is that the three relates A, B and C constitute one single sign relation which cannot be dissolved into dyads.28 Put differently, something means something else only to someone. Precisely because it is triadic, this model provides a remedy against the ›collapsing‹ of allelopoiesis into autopoiesis. The interpretant is not extrinsically but genuinely related to the relation between object and representamen; it follows that it is not due to the epistemic effort of some interpreting mind that the connection among them is formed. As Peirce argues, a triadic sign relation implies that the three relates are equiprimordially connected by virtue of a certain »ground« or »idea […] in a sort of Platonic sense«,29 which they all share. For instance, the ›idea‹ of sympathy – be it a nominalist norm or a universal – provides the basis upon which Stoic and Humean understandings of co-affectability are (inter-)related for Smith. Certainly, the accounts of Marcus, Hume and Smith, along with all other interpretations of sympathy from antiquity to the present, are in some respect dissimilar, according to their specific historical context. However, they are also in some respect similar. There must be a minimal correspondence between them or else they could not be called transformations, i.e. variants of their precedent(s). By virtue of their shared ›ground‹, they partake in one common theme, which with Peirce we could call dynamic object.30 This is what determines their relation and so connects them beforehand. Their being related in a triad implies that Hume’s notion of sympathy is so determined by that of Marcus on the one hand and so determines Smith’s on the other that this latter is mediately determined by the Stoic object of reference. A relation between the interpretant and the recipient exists only on account of that further connection to an object. The transformation that takes place may thus be stated as follows: Marcus’ account is selectively received by Hume and so Smith, finding himself epistemically connected to this transformative relation, which to him surfaces as allelopoietic, reproduces it in his own work. By so doing, he transforms the thought of his Scottish predecessor. In our own interpretations of Smith, his transformation of Hume through Marcus likewise appears as an allelopoiesis, which we can analyse more closely if we choose. No doubt, by interpreting this transformation, we as commentators of the Enlightenment philosopher also transform our subject matter to some greater or lesser extent. Yet our transformation too is specifically determined and thus not simply a singular, self-positing construction. Our interpretant is selective towards the _____________ 27

28 29 30

Peirce, ibid., VIII, 226, speaks of a »mental element« that inheres in any sign: »In A’s putting away B, there is no thirdness. In C’s taking B, there is no thirdness. But if you say that these two acts constitute one single operation by virtue of the identity of the B, you transcend the mere brute fact, you introduce a mental element.« Cf. ibid.: »For every combination of relatives to make a new relative is a triadic relation irreducible to dyadic relations.« Peirce, Collected Papers, I, 135. Cf. Peirce, Collected Papers, VIII, 232.

10

Introduction

representamen from the reception sphere, Smith’s account of sympathy, yet at the same time it is mediately determined by the Humean object of reference so that repercussions can take place. Within this as well as any other series of transformations, we find that each manifestation of the theme ›sympathy‹ (each immediate object to speak with Peirce)31 stands in an allelopoietic relation to a precedent and for a successor in the continuum of history. Any triadic relation is epistemically compatible to further relations that share the same ground. With these, it constitutes a specific nexus of transformation. While a constructivist model allows no more than to put one autopoiesis next to another, for instance Smith→(Stoa↔Smith) and Smith→(Hume↔Smith), a triadic conception acknowledges the historicity of transformations and enables us to address epoch-spanning cultural change. Bergemann, Böhme and others have already described various types of transformation in detail. I would however like to point out and briefly discuss the three categories most useful to my purpose which, to my mind, are also the most basic. Any account of sympathy, we may assume, has a set of constitutive and nonconstitutive features. When it is transformed in the light of another and vice versa, some of these are selected while others fall into oblivion and are superseded by characteristics of the allelopoietic partner. In the said example, Smith certainly privileges the conception of his contemporary Hume over the Stoic object of reference so that scarcely any features of the latter are retained. This is not always the case, however. When Lord Shaftesbury reproduces the transformative relation between Stoicism and seventeenth-century theology in what regards sympathy, his interpretation clearly favours the sphere of reference over that of reception. Finally, transformations may also take place on an equal footing. Where Francis Hutcheson writes about sympathy as the foundation of the moral sense, he adopts as many features from Cicero as he does from Shaftesbury. The three elementary forms of transformation I thus define as follows.32 Should the characteristics of the object A go head to head with the innovative features of the representamen B, the transformation that comes to pass for the interpretant C may be termed a hybridisation, i.e. a transformation that combines elements from the spheres of reference and reception in a more or less equitable manner. By the by, this is the sort of interpretation that my study of transformations aims at because, however transformative it may be, it pays equal respect to each of the sources discussed alongside one another, disfiguring neither A nor B to a too great extent. This is not so when the original features of A are predominant. This might be called an appropriation, i.e. a transformation that places a reference object into the reception sphere with nearly all of its characteristics, repercussions abounding. If, on the other hand, the innovative features of B are in the majority, assimilation is the result, i.e. a transformation integrating the object of reference with only a few of its features into the reception sphere, thus giving it an entirely different aspect. _____________ 31 32

Cf. ibid. The definitions are variants of those in Bergemann et al. (2011), 47–54.

Introduction

11

In summary, I propose a hermeneutic model of allelopoiesis. This makes all the more sense because sympathy itself has been regarded as a concern of hermeneutics since the age of Hume and up to the present day.33 The Scottish philosopher maintained that to sympathise means to understand and so gave a semiotic explanation of fellow-feeling. Notably, he also conceived of a triadic model of intersubjective sympathies somewhat reminiscent of Peirce’s triad and suggested that moral sentiments are the outcome of semiosis.34 Thus sympathy, as well as its transformative history, is a matter of understanding signs or sign processes. This is not to say, however, that each and every act of semiosis within the said nexus of transformation will be scrutinised in the following. Due to the limited scope of my study, I will sometimes but not always analyse the allelopoiesis of transformations in detail. This has proven most fruitful when the objects of reference and reception are widely different. Notwithstanding, this book builds on the conviction that we can discover the hermeneutic workings of allelopoiesis at the bottom of all cultural appropriation, assimilation or hybridisation if we but look closely enough.

_____________ 33

34

The seminal article by Farr (1978) argues that Hume anticipated Friedrich Schleiermacher’s notion of hermeneutic sympathy. This view found many echoes and has most recently been embraced by Bohlin (2009). Remarkably, sympathy is still associated with hermeneutics today. Nussbaum (1997), 99–107, has asserted its vital role in narrative imagination and thus readers’ sense-making. Cf. ch. 3 in this book, 73 and passim.

CHAPTER 2: SYMPATHY RENDERED MORAL

Lord Shaftesbury and the Ancient Traditions of Sympathy »To sympathize, what is it?«1 This ontologically dimensioned question posed by Anthony Ashley-Cooper, the third Earl of Shaftesbury, is perhaps the mandatory point of departure for a study of the sympathetic imagination in the eighteenth century. Remarkably, when Shaftesbury thus inquired into the nature of co-affectability, he had retreated from the bustle of social life. In July 1698 he set up his residence in Rotterdam with the intention of retiring from the world completely.2 Hence the note dated »Rottd: 1698«3 which approaches the question of sympathy does not hinge on conclusions drawn from observations of sociable scenes. Shaftesbury wanted to probe into the matter somewhat deeper. Placed in his reclusive state, he sought to be »more conversant with the ancients and less with the People of this age«,4 to study the classical works and record his private thoughts in a philosophical journal titled Askêmata. Without such solitary contemplation, Shaftesbury’s character Theocles claims in the epistolary dialogue »The Moralists«, we cannot truly relish poets like Virgil or Horace. Recess allows us to enter into a meaningful relation to ourselves and so behold the true nature of things, sympathy among them, which we find discussed or represented in ancient literature.5 Although Shaftesbury thus placed great value on soliloquy in retirement, he is commonly seen as a ›man of the world‹ in literary scholarship. His name is often associated with polite colloquy, refined sensibility and gentlemanliness. This is mainly due to a seminal study by Lawrence Klein, which argues that Shaftesbury’s masterpiece Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times had a socio-political purpose and envisioned an aristocratic polite culture.6 Exactly like George Berkeley, one of the Earl’s fiercest critics in the eighteenth century, Klein suggested that Shaftesbury puts virtue on one footing with politeness.7 There is however reason to doubt that this latter notion, arguably a rather hazy concept at the time, is at the core of Shaftesburian ethics. Most strikingly, in the opening scene of »The Moralists«, polite company is harshly criticised as an unfit environment for philosophising.8 To Shaftesbury, as _____________ 1 2

3 4 5 6 7 8

Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 91. All biographical information concerning Shaftesbury is taken from Voitle (1984), who noted, 85, that during his time in Rotterdam, Shaftesbury strictly forbade his family and friends to address any letters to him unless otherwise directed. Cf. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 86. Shaftesbury to John Locke, 9 April 1698, in: Rand (1900), 306. Cf. Shaftesbury, »The Moralists«, 78–79. More recently, the position of Klein (1994) has found echoes in Regan (2001) and Barr (2018). Cf. Berkeley, »The Third Dialogue«, in: Alciphron, 120–152. The polite society that Philocles and Palemon find themselves in at the outset of the essay is said to be no place for philosophy. Palemon laments that politeness puts a stop to any serious discourse,

14

Sympathy rendered Moral

suggested by the fact that his Askêmata were written in solitude, retiring from the world of politeness and establishing a wholesome self-relation is a crucial requisite for the recognition of philosophical truths and thus, among other things, the cosmological, moral and aesthetic significance of sympathy. This tells his work apart from later empiricist philosophies of sympathy which were based on the method of observation rather than contemplation. The following discussion of Shaftesbury’s understanding of sympathy gives me the opportunity to sketch the concept’s ancient origins, which the author reflects upon repeatedly, while also providing me with a foil for comparison with later philosophical currents that explore this subject, namely Moral Sentimentalism and Radicalism. By pointing out significant contrasts with Francis Hutcheson, David Hume and others, I attempt to make explicit the crucial transformations of ancient sumpatheia that enabled the rise of the sympathetic imagination as a vital theorem of British Enlightenment thought. Unlike his successors, Shaftesbury did not yet consider sympathies based on imaginative propositions the pivot of human morality. Indeed, he was the last philosopher of sympathy in the richer, holistic sense of the term. What the principle of co-affectability means to Shaftesbury is a question that lies at the bottom of many scholarly debates concerning his work, yet this specific issue has rarely ever been discussed at greater length. Traditionally, Shaftesbury’s collection of philosophical essays and miscellanies titled Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times – a best-selling book over the course of most of the eighteenth century – is regarded as an important precursor of the philosophies of sympathy by David Hume and Adam Smith.9 Some literary scholars more broadly associate it with the cult of sensibility.10 In particular, the influential narrative of Ronald Crane places the work of Shaftesbury within a larger trajectory which is referred to as the ›genealogy of the man of feeling‹.11 According to Crane, British sentimentalism as typified by Henry Mackenzie’s novel The Man of Feeling originates in later seventeenth-century Latitudinarian traditions. Shaftesbury, certainly, is considered an important figure in this family tree and thus as the co-author of a philosophy whose protagonist is rich in feelings for others as well as himself, but never takes recourse to his reason. Refuting this position, a different set of scholars has regarded the Enlightenment philosopher as a modern Stoic who is absolutely taken with the rationalist philosophy of the Athenian Porch. This understanding of Shaftesbury became well established after his Askêmata gained currency, a journal which documents philosophical _____________ 9 10

11

cf. Shaftesbury, »The Moralists«, 26: »whatever Politeneß we may pretend to, ’tis more a Disfigurement than any real Refinement of Discourse, to render it thus delicate.« Cf. Tuveson (1953) and Mullan (1988), 18–56, esp. 26–27. Cf. e.g. Humphreys (1948) and Barker-Benfield (1996), 105–119. Apart from Uehlein (1976) and Lobis (2015), 198–255, commentators tend to equate sympathy with sentiment or sensibility. However, as I discuss further below, sympathy is a co-sensitive relation, not a specific emotion or thought, let alone an acuteness of the senses. Cf. Crane (1934).

Sympathy rendered Moral

15

exercises in the tradition of the late Stoics.12 These private writings are largely based on the model of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations in that they perform soliloquies concerning those opinions or doxa which allow the author to lead a life in conformity with nature. It is here that Shaftesbury first asked »To sympathize, what is it?« and the answer in this particular context, expectably, is orthodox Stoic. If the author’s published work needs to be reviewed from the perspective of his Askêmata, as some have suggested, does this mean that his conception of sympathy is Stoic and nothing but Stoic?13 The assertion that Shaftesburian philosophy is of a Stoic mould has not gone unchallenged. Most prominently, Ernst Cassirer claimed that the basic principle in Shaftesburian thought is the Platonic vision of theoria,14 arguably one of the most important motifs in the essay »The Moralists«, which the author himself once called the »hinge and bottom«15 of his magnum opus.16 More particularly, Cassirer determined the Enlightenment philosopher as a successor of the Cambridge school of Platonism, a claim which has found many echoes.17 The invaluable study of Seth Lobis, the first to devote an entire chapter exclusively to the Shaftesburian conception of sympathy, regards this latter as »a crucial legacy of Cambridge Platonism«.18 However, there is reason to doubt that the Earl adheres all too closely to this specific concept of sympathy. To my mind, the editors of the Shaftesbury Standard Edition were right to question whether reading the third Earl as a disciple of just one philosophical school can live up to the complexity of his thought.19 Friedrich Uehlein’s seminal book on cosmology and subjectivity in the thought of Shaftesbury – which includes the most elaborate account of how the philosopher viewed the matter of sympathy – criticises that locating his philosophy in Sentimentalism, Stoicism, or (Neo-)Platonism ignores the innovative transformations achieved in his work.20 Certainly, any such reductionist _____________ 12 13

14

15 16 17 18 19 20

Shaftesbury’s philosophical journal was first published in Rand (1900), 1–272. Cf. Rand (1900), v–xxxi, Tiffany (1923) and Jaffro (1999/2000). The most recent contribution to the debate, Dehrmann (2009), claims that Shaftesbury embraces the doctrines of the Stoics in Characteristicks as much as in Askêmata. If the former seems less rigidly Stoic than the latter, Dehrmann supposed, this is because the philosopher lures his readers into serious contemplation by adopting a more pleasing style. This alone would not make Shaftesbury a Platonist proper. As Bénatouïl (2013) has convincingly argued, the late Stoics Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, to whom Shaftesbury is so much indebted, assimilated the Platonic notion of theoria into their philosophy. Shaftesbury to Thomas Micklethwaite, 24 November 1711, in: Rand (1900), 448–49, here 449. Cf. Cassirer (1930–31/1932). Cf. esp. Gill (1999) and Grossklaus (2000). Lobis (2015), 198–255, here 203. Cf. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 13–16. Cf. Uehlein (1976), here 13. Uehlein’s learned study Kosmos und Subjektivität has been a helpful source for my understanding of Shaftesbury’s conception of sympathy. In particular, it has pointed out to me the significance of sympathy for oikeiosis, a principle the third Earl appropriated from Stoicism, cf. ibid., 55: »Das Verhältnis der gegenseitigen Eignung von Einzelnem für Einzelnes und zum Ganzen ist Sympathie.« I will enlarge on this further below.

16

Sympathy rendered Moral

view does not agree well with how Shaftesbury conceived of the history of philosophy himself. In a letter to Pierre Coste, the third Earl claimed that there are only two philosophical schools. The first, to which he considered himself heir, is discerned as the Socratic tradition, which encompasses the Old Academy as well as the Peripatetics and the Stoics. This line of philosophy inspires mankind to live an active social life and believe in a deity. The second, founded by Democritus and pursued by the Epicureans, promotes the exact contraries.21 Thus, under the predicate of the ›Socratic‹, Shaftesbury handles a vast number of motifs or traditions both ancient and modern in sophisticated transformations. In particular, his interpretation of sympathy is not a little complex. The present chapter explores how Shaftesbury appropriates this concept, which traditionally is at home in natural philosophy, into the context of his ethics. There are chiefly three points to consider. Firstly, Shaftesbury correlates Stoic sumpatheia with the notion of natural affection which he assimilates from divine literature. For him, the two concepts are indicative of one another and so come to interchange some of their characteristics. Analysing this allelopoiesis helps to understand the extraordinary career the term sympathy, now more expressly a moral concept, develops in the eighteenth century. Secondly, I show how Shaftesbury conceives of a notion of reflected sympathy by drawing on the ancient understanding of sensus communis alongside more recent conceptions of moral sense. According to the third Earl, such evaluative sympathising, by producing a rational affection, provides access to and motivates the recognition of the immutable idea of virtue. Man22 rationalises the fact that by acting upon impulses of sympathy, he is truly himself and so contributes to the welfare of the cosmic whole, all parts of which are co-sensitively connected. Thus defined, the Shaftesburian notion of reflected sympathy may be distinguished from later sentimentalist conceptions which, by contrast, trust little to reason and rely chiefly on the power of the imagination. Nonetheless, and this is discussed in the final part of the current chapter, Shaftesbury indeed more closely considers the moral functions of imaginationbased sympathy. The author of Characteristicks is aware that when readers are affected on account of their fancies, they may be encouraged to lead a good life. However, as pointed out in »The Moralists«, the sentimental reader will qualify as virtuous only if he further gains rational insight into the reality of sympathy. Thus far, fellow-feeling in idea is not regarded sufficient to furnish the mind with an understanding of right and wrong. In other words, the reader whom Shaftesbury pictures does not, after having felt for fictional characters, hurry to associate with his fellows in more affectionate ways. Struck by the power of sympathy, he sets down his book and enters into a meaningful self-relation. By contemplating the nature of human sympathies, he models his character on virtue.

_____________ 21 22

Cf. Shaftesbury to Pierre Coste, 1 October 1706, in: Rand (1900), 355–366, esp. 359. For the sake of convenience, I follow Shaftesbury’s understanding of man as a term that applies to human beings of all genders.

Sympathy rendered Moral

17

What Strikes a Sympathetic Chord: Reading the Stoics, Casaubon and Whichcote For Shaftesbury, understanding sympathy is ultimately a private affair and as such it is part of his Askêmata. The two notebooks that record his soliloquies contain entries made over a course of nearly fourteen years, almost his entire literary career.23 These are arranged under headings such as »DEITY«, »PASSIONS« and »SELF«, but also »Τύπος καί χαρακτήρ« (»disposition and character«) and »προκοπή« (»improvement«). The titles of these sections suggest a connection to Stoic self-exercise and indeed the works which Shaftesbury most often paraphrases or excerpts are Arrian’s transcriptions of Epictetus’ teachings, the Encheiridion and the Discourses, as well as the Meditations of the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius.24 Nonetheless, Shaftesbury’s Askêmata are the outcome of (re-)readings of various sources. The philosopher here conducts a wide array of transformations. He connects diverse figures of thought, most of which originate in Greco-Roman antiquity, thus rendering them in his own terms and rewriting them to some greater or lesser extent. The chief aim of the Earl’s private notes is to examine the self and for this purpose only they make an attempt at understanding the respective texts. Their author evaluates his thoughts and sentiments in fictional dialogues of a dialectic nature, thereby distinguishing the ill dictates of custom or fashion from the right opinions that allow him to live in accordance with law-governed nature. He then internalises the virtuous notions and repels their contraries by taking recourse to imperative clauses, personal addresses or rhetorical questions.25 The manifold soliloquies which Shaftesbury performs in his Askêmata are perhaps best described as part of a long tradition that Pierre Hadot has called Philosophy as a Way of Life. According to Hadot, these philosophical exercises – which originate in Socratic philosophy and were still practiced by Michel Foucault – rely on the method of re-placing oneself »within the perspective of the Whole«, thus producing »a transformation of our vision of the world, and […] a metamorphosis of our personality.«26 Whatever conceptions or doxa are thus (re-)evaluated, their rewriting takes place in respect to a notion of the whole which may differ historically and culturally. It is this particular logic of transformation that is followed also in Askêmata. For Shaftesbury, whose exercises prove him to be a disciple of Epictetus and _____________ 23

24

25 26

The majority of the entries were made during Shaftesbury’s first (August 1698 to April 1699) and second retreat to Holland (August 1703 to August 1704). Detailed information about the respective dates is given in the conspectus printed in the Standard Edition, cf. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 55. For a sound account of how the thought of Shaftesbury relates to that of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, cf. Uehlein (2008), esp. 1062, where he concludes that Characteristicks, unlike Askêmata, cannot be read as orthodox Stoic. For a concise discussion of the literary strategies employed in Askêmata, cf. Uehlein (1976), esp. 15– 16. Cf. Hadot (1995), 82.

18

Sympathy rendered Moral

Marcus Aurelius, the specific whole to which he takes recourse is, for the most part, the Stoic cosmos. When asking himself »To sympathize, what is it?« in the early section »DEITY«, Shaftesbury reassures himself of the divine order of that whole upon which his exercises are founded in the first place. What precisely is sympathy?27 For the Stoics and ancient natural philosophy in general, the concept of sumpatheia described the concurrence of affects in interrelated parts of one entity. Plato famously used the term to explain the phenomenon of contagious yawning, implying that humans are related to one another co-sensitively and so an affection in one of them may spontaneously spread to the other.28 For the philosophers of the Stoa, phenomena of this sort were believed to demonstrate that sympathetic relations define the structure of the world. That the various parts of the cosmos feel with one another links them intrinsically, and this coherence between them guarantees the harmony of the whole. This whole was more particularly conceived as an intelligent and sentient living being that is pervaded by the vital principle pneuma, a dynamic and fire-like generative power. Ontologically speaking, sympathy is grounded in the logos of pneumatic nature. The co-affectabilities that surface across the universe must be accounted ›reasonable‹, namely in that they follow natural law, which is based on the principle of right reason (orthos logos). All existing things are akin to each other, yet those that share a specific nature sympathise more closely with one another as they partake in one tissue of the world. Any species of plants or animals and of course the human species exhibits such close sympathy. In the case of mankind, this is manifest in the formation of societies. Shaftesbury’s entries to the section »DEITY« appropriate these Stoic tenets. The philosopher draws on the supposition of a cosmos united by sumpatheia when he attempts to prove that »there is one all-knowing, & all-intelligent Nature«29 or, as he puts it elsewhere, »One Mind & GOD«.30 Performing a self-discourse, he pens a dialogue in which a first speaker asks what this is, to sympathise? His respondent gives the definition »To feel together, or be united in one Sence or Feeling«31 and provides corresponding examples such as are given by Cicero, Marcus Aurelius and

_____________ 27

28 29 30 31

In the following, my understanding of Stoic sympathy follows Pohlenz (1950), 286–293, and in particular Bees (2004), 136–142, who sided with Pohlenz rather than Reinhardt (1926) and convincingly proved wrong the latter’s claim that the doctrine of sympathy originated in Posidonius. In any case, it appears that Shaftesbury’s prime Stoic sources were Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius (his copies show extensive underlining and notes) and, possibly, the second book of Cicero’s On the Nature of Gods. Thanks is due to Friedrich Uehlein for pointing out to me that Shaftesbury never explicitly refers to Posidonius in his as of yet unpublished notes. Cf. Plato, Charmides, 169c. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 92. Ibid., 511. This quotation is a supplement Shaftesbury adds to the passage in question when he copies it into an excerpt summarising his exercises. Ibid., 91.

Sympathy rendered Moral

19

Epictetus:32 »the Fibres of the Plant sympathize, the Members of the Animal sympathize, and do not the heavenly Bodyes sympathize?«33 Sympathy is what interconnects any number of parts that form an organic unity. The respondent’s claim that this is true not only of the members of a plant’s body or of a herd of animals, but also of the cosmos as a whole, does not convince the inquirer, however. He objects that he himself is not sensible of this universal sympathy.34 The interlocutor then asserts that although the only sympathising we may be immediately conscious of is that in our own body, we must come to realise that those things greater and more united, such as the system of the heavenly bodies and the world entire, sympathise also. There is a »sympathizing of the Whole«,35 which points to the coherence of the cosmos and is the proper object of contemplation. Defined as the chief expression of a world perfectly ordered by natural law, sympathy is the conditio sine qua non of Shaftesbury’s spiritual exercises. Universal sumpatheia assures the Stoic novice of the normative standard on account of which he can correct his opinions. Nothing less than theism and, in consequence, moral realism is at stake when Shaftesbury asks whether or not there is a »Consent & Harmony of Parts«.36 Morally speaking, it follows from the supposition of cosmic sympathy that there are »proper Affections of Subjects making them to operate correspondently towards a Generall Good«,37 i.e. that living things are by (sympathetic) nature furnished with affections that have a tendency to benefit the whole. This argument provides the backdrop for what Shaftesbury developed in the preceding section of Askêmata titled »NATURAL AFFECTION«. These entries stand out in that they discuss a theme fairly uncharacteristic of Stoicism.38 Marcus takes little notice of the bond between parents and their offspring while Epictetus claims that a father must be fully indifferent at the death of his child to follow nature.39 Natural affection surely has no part in what they understand by philosophical exercise. Feelings of concern for another, such as parental affection, are directed towards something that lies outside the individual’s power and so endanger the selfautonomy upon which the Stoics place so much value. According to Epictetus, man _____________ 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

39

Cf. Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods, II, 119, Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IX, 9, and Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus, I, 14, 1–10. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 91–92. This is the problem of how to become a friend of mankind and be in sympathy with the whole rather than just some part of it. I return to this point further below. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 92. Ibid. To be sure, theism and moral realism are coextensive for Shaftesbury. Ibid., 93. This appears to have troubled Shafesbury. During his second Holland retreat in 1704, he adds a Greek quotation from Arrian’s Discourses of Epictetus to the section concerned with natural affection, apparently discovered during a re-reading. In this passage, which he cites out of context, there is a mention of storgē, a term that is arguably rather uncommon for Epictetus. The paragraph is singled out so as to support the Shaftesburian conception of natural affection, cf. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 84. Cf. Arrian, Encheiridion, XI.

20

Sympathy rendered Moral

as a rational being renders his life kata phusin not primarily by embracing his natural affections but by practicing his innate reason and thus acquiring the right opinions about his sensual perceptions and feelings.40 By contrast, in the entries Shaftesbury makes under the heading »NATURAL AFFECTION«, the emphasis is that the first requisite for meeting the Stoic demand »to follow Nature«41 is to act upon kind feelings such as parents have for their children. The beginning of this section cites the opening lines of the tenth book of the Meditations by Marcus Aurelius and interprets them accordingly. The Roman Emperor’s Stoic self-inquiry whether his soul will once enjoy a loving disposition and be good, simple and at one, is answered not by an appeal to reason, as could be expected from a Stoic, but Shaftesbury’s definition of natural affection: ⋆ΕΣΗ ποτὲ ἆρ’ ὦ ψυχή, ἀγαθὴ καὶ ἁπλῆ, καὶ μία, καὶ γυμνή, φανερωτέρα τοῦ περικειμένου σοι σώματος; γεύσῃ ποτὲ ἆρα τῆς φιλητικῆς καὶ στερκτικῆς διαθέσεως; &c: To have Naturall Affection: not that wch is only towards Relations; but towards all Mankind. to be truly φιλάνθρωπoς. neither to scoff, nor hate; nor be angry; nor be impatient wth them; nor abominate them; nor overlook them: and to pitty in a manner, & love those that are the greatest Miscreants; those that are most furiouse against thy self in particular, and at the time when they are most furiouse. […] When is it, therefore, that Thou shalt become as it were, a common Father of Mankind? so as to say, whatever wretch or whatever number of such thou see’st (whether of the most prosperous or most dejected, whether of one Country or another, whether of the Simplest or of those yt are thought wise) »These are they who tho’ they have no care of themselves; nor none amongst them truly affected or concerned for them; tho’ they are animated against one another, and can least of all endure him that would take this care of them; yet These are They whome I make to be my Care and Charg; whome I foster, & do good to, against their wills, & shall ever do so, as long as they are MEN, & that I am of their kind« —42

In that he singles out the citation from the Meditations and correlates it with his philosopheme of natural affection, Shaftesbury emphasises that not only innate reason, but innate good feeling likewise is necessary if the individual wants to succeed in his philosophical exercises. Marcus’ expression »τῆς φιλητιχῆς χαί στερχτιχής διαθέσεως« (»friendly and loving disposition«) is here correlated with the notion philanthropos and this relation is further interpreted as natural affection. A small but significant rewriting takes place. For Shaftesbury, the telos of self-perfection is to be a philanthropist in such a way as to become a common father of mankind. To have natural affection for all those who are of the same kind (and not our children or nearest relations merely) is the very foundation of goodness and simplicity. As a result, parental affection, when extensive enough, is identified with that greater human sympathy which interconnects the individual with its species. In this point, the Enlightenment philosopher differs from his Stoic predecessors who stressed that reason is the first and foremost means of man’s oikeiosis, i.e. the _____________ 40 41 42

Cf. Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus, I, 20. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 75. Ibid., 71–72.

Sympathy rendered Moral

21

process of self-appropriation which enables him to be in conformity with nature.43 According to Chrysippus, man becomes aware of his natural constitution by reflection. This awareness then is productive of self-love which ensures the preservation of the individual and is accounted the first impulse of oikeiosis.44 In a similar vein, Cicero in his De Finibus states that self-preservation is the Stoic primum officium, followed by the second office to choose what is in accordance with nature and repel the contrary, a choice which must become a fixed habit in the grown individual.45 Surely, one of the impulses that are to be embraced is parental affection, by which the preservation of the species is maintained and its members in effect are prompted to associate.46 This spontaneous natural affection, however, cannot be the point of departure for a rational being. To be in accordance with the cosmos, man must first contemplate the world’s order and sympathetic connectedness.47 Convinced of its good and wise economy, he shall be indifferent to what befalls himself and thus be pious in the highest sense.48 While for the Stoics, the oikeiosis of rational beings is founded on reason, Shaftesbury emphasises that self-appropriation must commence with natural affection, in which the normative content, which reason is bound to recognise, is lodged already. This is somewhat contrasting to the Stoic demand to pursue apatheia, a state of equanimity wherein the wise man is completely undisturbed by feeling.49 From Zeno to Marcus Aurelius, no Stoic author would concede that man’s self-appropriation by which he submits himself to the law of nature is au fond emotionally based. Shaftesbury transforms their line of thought in that he assimilates the philosopheme of natural affection into Stoic ethics, making it a first requisite for what they commonly understand by virtue. To have natural affection, what is it?50 The chief quality of such love, which we must come to feel even towards those who are ill-natured and ill-willing, is disinterestedness: »Love Them when thou expect’st neither thy Good nor thy Ill from them.«51 To illustrate the concept, Shaftesbury relates the story of the children with their nuts and apples. Like a father who loves his offspring, so the philosopher must be a common father of mankind; he will not engage in childish business, so as to go after treats and _____________ 43

44 45 46 47 48 49 50

51

The self is normative in that it is intimately connected to the sympathetic cosmos. My understanding of Stoic oikeiosis and how it relates to sympathy is indebted to the study of Bees (2004), 157– 185. For its significance in Shaftesburian philosophy, cf. Uehlein (1976), 54–70. Cf. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, VII, 85. Cf. Cicero, On Ends, III, 20–21. Cf. ibid., III, 62–63. Another prominent account of the same is given in On the Nature of the Gods, II, 127–29, where the Stoic Balbus mentions parental love (amor). Cf. e.g. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, III, 20–21. Cf. e.g. Cicero, On Ends, III, 25, and Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 16. Cf. e.g. Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus, IV, 10, 25–30. Shaftesbury sometimes uses the plural form natural affections, meaning thereby not only parental affection, but also self-love. This too is natural, because it also serves the preservation of the species. Indeed, the quality of both affections is the same: we love ourselves just like we love our children, disinterestedly and unconditionally, cf. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 325. Ibid., 72.

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playthings or let himself be provoked by childish games. That he has no selfish interest in his children’s nuts and apples is the chief characteristic of his natural affection for them. Such affection is natural (or more natural than any other) because it originates and, when extensive enough, culminates in a sympathy with the species. Placed in a sympathetic cosmos, man needs to enlarge his disinterested feelings towards all those of his own kind. Put differently, Shaftesbury comes to understand Stoic sumpatheia through natural affection and vice versa: the latter, now conceived of as a feeling extended towards all humanity, coincides with sympathy, which in return takes on more explicit social and moral connotations. A »sympathizing« self, Shaftesbury points out, answers to »those Names of Naturall Affection«.52 In such manner, the two concepts continue to appear in close proximity throughout Askêmata.53 Nor is this conjunction absent from the Earl’s published writings. Already in his earliest philosophical work, printed by John Toland under the title An Inquiry concerning Virtue during his first Holland retreat in November 1698, the author claimed that true natural affection is »founded in Love, Complacency, Goodwill, and in a sympathy with the Kind or Species«.54 In consequence of its correlation with natural affection, human sumpatheia – although it has not properly a place in Stoic ethics, but only Stoic cosmology – is considered the very origin of normative moral content. For Shaftesbury, the quality of disinterestedness inheres in human sympathies that arise sua sponte. Our spontaneous sympathising with a fellow human being, be it our own child or an absolute stranger, is deemed disinterested. Originally a concept chiefly of natural philosophy, sympathy is now established also as a moral term. Thus defined, it embarks on a singular career in eighteenth-century ethics. Like sympathy, the concept of natural affection has a long history. To fully explain Shaftesbury’s transformation, it is necessary to briefly allude to its provenance. This compound term is the English equivalent of the Greek storgē and widespread in divine literature of the seventeenth century. It takes root in theological writing through the publication of the King James Bible, which translates two mentions of astorgos in the Pauline epistles as »without naturall affection«.55 In the course of the century – partly in response to the psychological egoism of Thomas Hobbes who endorsed Plautus’ proverb that man to man is a wolf – the term natural affection comes to denote any kind of altruistic feeling in theological literature and is more closely associated with St. Paul’s account of agápē or caritas,56 i.e. a kind, all-enduring and disinterested form of love. The catalogue to Shaftesbury’s library57 lists authors _____________ 52 53 54 55 56 57

Ibid., 222. Cf. ibid., 218, 252. Shaftesbury, »Inquiry«, 183. The expression »astorgos« from Rom. I, 31 and 2 Tim. III, 3 translates to »sine affectione« in the Latin Vulgate and »without natural affection« in the KJV. Cf. 1 Corinth. 13. The contents of the third Earl’s library are listed in three manuscript catalogues which have been transcribed and made searchable by The Shaftesbury Project at Erlangen, cf. the section »Library« on its homepage, , last accessed on 22 September 2018.

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who were advocates of this concept of natural affection such as Simon Patrick or Mary Astell.58 Also, as the extensive notes in his copy show, Shaftesbury took a great interest in the transformative first English translation of Marcus’ Meditations by the Anglican churchman Meric Casaubon, son of the more famous Isaac. Last but not least, the Earl comes across the notion of natural affection also as the editor of a number of sermons by the Cambridge Platonist Benjamin Whichcote. Exploring Shaftesbury’s engagement with the two last-mentioned authors in particular will allow me to revisit Ronald Crane’s claim that Shaftesbury’s tenets are but a small link in a genealogy reaching back to seventeenth-century theology. Shaftesbury’s copy of Casaubon’s 1634 translation of Marcus Aurelius appears to be one of the most thoroughly read books in his library. This is at least what the extensive marginalia and annotations in his own hand indicate.59 While the original Greek text which Shaftesbury consulted as well60 has often been regarded as a point of reference, his reception of the transformative translation of Casaubon remains yet to be considered. According to Richard Serjeantson, Casaubon’s vernacular works »examine the present through the lens of antiquity«61 and it is in this sense that his translation of the Meditations anticipates the Shaftesburian conjunction of Stoic sympathy and Christian natural affection.62 The mentions of sumpatheia in Marcus Aureli_____________ 58

59

60

61 62

Simon Patrick in his The Parable of the Pilgrim, 468, asserted that man learns how to have »a Natural affection unto God« from the practice of friendship with his fellows. Meanwhile, Mary Astell, in one of her Letters Concerning the Love of God, 111, supposed that in order to love the deity, the individual must »be conformed to the Divine Nature« through embracing »the great Band of Affection«. Sadly, the book is no longer to be found in the library at St. Giles House, the home of the AshleyCoopers in Dorset. At this point, I want to thank Nicholas Ashley-Cooper, the 12th Earl of Shaftesbury, for allowing me to consult the surviving books formerly in the possession of the third Earl. Thanks is due also to Richard Samways, the current librarian at St. Giles House, who has been a great help to me during my visit in May 2014. Finally, I am also thankful to Christine JacksonHolzberg from the University of Erlangen, who kindly sent me a number of photographs taken of Shaftesbury’s copy of Casaubon before it went missing. However, these show only Shaftesbury’s notes on the front- and endpapers, in the preface and the first four books of the work. Yet as a selective transcript of the marginalia by James Harris – which Christine Jackson-Holzberg has made accessible to me – indicates, there is more marking and commentary to be found in the other eight books. Regrettably, it is impossible to tell whether Shaftesbury made annotations to sections that include mentions of sympathy or natural affection because these are not among the material either photographed or transcribed. Shaftesbury’s personal copy of the 1680 edition of the Meditations, titled De seipso, et ad seipsum, which was rebound and now contains the original Greek text only, is kept in the Bodleian Library at Oxford (Don. f. 532). The Greek and Latin annotations in the third Earl’s hand comment on the Latin translations of Marcus Aurelius by Thomas Gataker and Wilhelm Xylander, make cross-references to parallel passages in the Greek text and interpret the work in view of other ancient sources such as Capitolinus’ biography of Marcus Aurelius or the teachings of Epictetus recorded by Arrian. Serjeantson (2004), n. p. Whereas Spiller (1980) criticised Casaubon for his supposedly antiquated Anglican scholarship, my understanding is that as a translator of Marcus Aurelius, he anticipated Shaftesbury’s innovative transformations of Stoicism.

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us’ Greek text are rare63 and Casaubon accordingly translates »Sympathie«, »sympathie« or »sympathize«.64 Translation and commentary employ sympathy very much in the sense Marcus did sumpatheia. Meanwhile, the expression natural affection is used frequently throughout Casaubon’s translation although the Greek equivalent storgē appears only twice in Marcus’ text.65 Most notably, it is correlated with sympathy in the prominent passage on cosmic sumpatheia in the ninth book of the Meditations. The Roman emperor here asserts that all things that are of one kind cooperate to one common end. Drawing on the principle of like-to-like, Marcus claims that man is of a sociable nature, however much he may attempt to defy it. The misconceptions that make him fly from society are ultimately overbalanced by a feeling of fellowship which is founded in cosmic sympathy. As a rational being, man is given the task to reflect and rationally affirm his natural associating inclination. It is in this context of sumpatheia that Casaubon translates the Greek spoudē,66 by which the individual is said to associate with his kind, as natural affection: But among reasonable creatures, begunne Common-wealths, friendships, families, publick meetings, and even in their warres conventions and truces. Now among them that were yet of a more excellent nature, as the starres and planets, though by their nature farre distant one from another, yet even among them began some mutual correspondencie and unitie. So proper is it to excellencie in a high degree to affect unitie, as that even in things so farre distant, it could operate unto a mutuall Sympathie. But now behold, what is now come to passe. Those creatures that are reasonable, are now the onely creatures that have forgotton their naturall affection & inclination of one towards another. Among them alone [of all other things that are of one kinde] there is not to be found, a generall disposition to flow together. But though they fly from Nature, yet are they stopt in their course, and apprehended. Doe they what they can, Nature doth prevaile. And so shalt thou confesse, if thou doest observe it. For sooner mayest thou finde a thing earthly, where no other earthly thing is, then finde a man that [naturally] can live by himselfe alone.67

Though zeal were perhaps the most proper English equivalent for spoudē, Casaubon chooses not to refer to this fellow-feeling as a ›zeal to socialise‹. Rather, he uses the term natural affection which has considerable moral implications. Human sympathy, he _____________ 63

64

65 66 67

There are only four mentions in Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, namely »συμπαθῶν« (sumpathōn) in IV, 27, »συμπάθειαν« (sumpatheian) in V, 26, »συμπαθῆ« (sumpathē) in VII, 66 and again sumpatheian in IX, 9. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, trans. Meric Casaubon, 48, 115 and 145. The only exception to this rule is a passage in V, 26 where Marcus speaks of the sympathetic unity of the parts of a human body. The English translation by Casaubon paraphrases, 72, »affections […] reflect, and rebound upon the mind and understanding (as in an united and compacted body it must needs;) […].« However, in similar passages that make no use of the term but refer to the same matter, Casaubon interpolates »sympathy«, cf. ibid., 107, 199. Namely in I, 11 as »ἀστοργότεροί« (astorgoteroi), literally »being without natural affection«, and in II, 5 in the compound »φιλoστoργίαϛ« (philostorgias). The original Greek reads »τῆς πρὸς ἄλληλα σπουδῆς καὶ συννεύσεως« (tēs pros allēla spoudēs kai sunneuseōs), cf. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IX, 9. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, trans. Meric Casaubon, 145–46.

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implies, consists in a disinterested love such as parents practice towards their offspring. This transformation makes good sense when considering that Casaubon’s greater project is to reassert the normativity of nature. Upon this ground, he establishes Marcus as an authority in matters of conduct, calling him a »natural man« in the title and preface. Drawing on the concept of religio naturalis, he qualifies the Meditations as an exercise book for the Christian reader of his day. It is in this sense that Casaubon comes to understand Christian morality through Stoic ethics and vice versa. He hybridises a certain concept of the former, the love or caritas man owes God as well as his neighbour, with the Stoic precept of living a life kata phusin. Proceeding on the assumption that all evangelical precepts boil down to natural law as advocated by the Stoics,68 Casaubon rejects the »opinion many Christians have, that most of those things which are reproved in them as sinnes and vices, agree best with their natures«69 and instead recommends that they learn from the ancients what it means to follow nature. Interpreting Stoicism, he finds it is unnatural to cherish one’s own flesh and body only; to act naturally, man must love the divine creation, he must »love nature, and what he conceives to bee according to nature.«70 Love towards the whole is the means, he assumes, by which the Stoic wise man lives a life according to natural law. The transformation thus achieved proclaims both an emotionally based Stoic ethics and a form of Christian morality for which the revelation plays only a minor role. Advocating natural religion, the translator stresses that a Christian’s »supernaturall illumination« is no necessary requisite for piety; its want can be supplied by »humane sense and reason«71 as apparent in the case of Marcus. This finally explains why Casaubon uses the term natural affection in his translation of the ninth book. Since he apparently sides with the adversaries of religious zealotry in the era of the Puritan resistance movement, it makes good sense that he would not account zeal the means of natural piety, but natural affection, which to him signifies a disinterested love that is in best accordance with sympathetic nature.72 Along these lines, Casaubon’s reader Shaftesbury continues the transformation in question. Supporting the interpretation given in the preface, his marginal notes correlate sections in the Roman emperor’s Meditations with passages from the Pauline epistles. Where Marcus (as translated by Casaubon) praises his brother-in-law’s exceptional love of family, which taught him »to be kind and loving to all them of my house«,73 Shaftesbury writes »St Paul / 13. Corinth.« on the margin. Christian agápē _____________ 68

69 70 71 72

73

Referring to Stoic natural law, Casaubon says in his preface, ibid., iii–iv: »I know not any Evangelicall precept, or duty belonging to a Christians practice […] but upon due search and examination, will prove of that nature.« Ibid., iii. Ibid. Ibid., iv. Later in 1656, Casaubon published A Treatise Concerning Enthusiasme which embraces reasonable (as opposed to fanciful) enthusiasm. For an account of Casaubon’s standpoint in the debates of the seventeenth century, cf. Michael Hunter (1981), 153–156. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, trans. Meric Casaubon, 6.

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as described in Corinthians 13 and the appreciation of Severus’ natural affection for his relations in Meditations are for Shaftesbury expressive of one another. Again, where Marcus addresses Stoic autarky, claiming that to follow nature means to be (in Casaubon’s translation) »above all paines or pleasures«,74 Shaftesbury draws a bracket next to which he writes »Paul«, thus agreeing with the translator that it is by an allenduring, disinterested love that man leads a life kata phusin. We see allelopoiesis at work: like Casaubon, Shaftesbury understands Christian caritas through ancient ethics and vice versa. However, while the Anglican churchman assimilates Stoic thought into a theological argument, Shaftesburian philosophy by contrast singles out the theologeme of natural affection and incorporates it into an appropriated Stoic framework. This strategy is followed not only in Askêmata as I showed above, but also in the preface to the Earl’s first major publication titled Select Sermons of Dr. Whichcote, published just before he left for Holland in 1698. He was among the first to make the teachings of Benjamin Whichcote, a leading figure of Cambridge Platonism, accessible in print.75 Why should the Enlightenment philosopher Shaftesbury, who would later be under attack for his deist views,76 publish a series of sermons? Scholars are universally agreed that Whichcote’s theological writings must have appealed to Shaftesbury because they advocate the doctrine of man’s essential good nature: »The Scripture lays much of the Stress of Religion, upon the Principle of GOOD NATURE, and the Charitable Disposition.«77 In particular, Whichcote unfolds the motif of natural affection and, what is more, associates it with sympathy. There is »[n]o fuller Participation of the Divine Nature«, the Cambridge Platonist finds, than acting »LOVELY«78 and such lovely actions are motivated by natural affection. To support his argument, Whichcote interprets one of the two mentions of astorgos in the Pauline Epistles. Here Shaftesbury as editor inserts the English equivalent into the text:79 »Observe Rom. I. 31 […] Persons that have relation to Children, but ⋆are without natural Affection: they are the Prodigies of the World.«80 Much like Shaftesbury in his Askêmata, Whichcote conceives of the Pauline storgē as a quintessentially disinterested feeling which shall find adaptation outside the domestic sphere. This »Parent-like Affection, that never thinks of making a Gain«81 extends in the truly lovely character even towards those who are not members of his family. It finds expression in, among other instances, the »Benignity of Princes and Potentates«,82 »the Compassion of _____________ 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Ibid., 24. Whichcote, who died in 1683, never published anything during his lifetime. Most notably, George Berkeley attacked Shaftesbury’s deism in his Alciphron. An account of this can be found in Jaffro (2007). Shaftesbury, Select Sermons, 175. Ibid., 202. In the majority of cases, Shaftesbury’s additions as editor are marked by an asterisk. Ibid., 203. Ibid., 204. Ibid.

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the good Samaritan« and »Moses’s Sympathy with his Brethren; who, when he might have been adopted Heir to the Crown, chose rather to suffer Affliction with the People of God.«83 Sympathy and natural affection thus appear in close proximity. Meanwhile, the preface affixed to the Earl’s edition of the sermons transforms Whichcote’s argument in that it singles out and enlarges upon the theologeme natural affection, ignoring its specific contexts. Rather than conceding to the Christian origin of the concept and asserting that ultimately, such disposition is an »Imitation of God«,84 as the Cambridge Platonist maintains, Shaftesbury assumes that it originates in heathen antiquity. While most divine literature, Whichcote being a notable exception, acknowledges the segregation of good-nature and piety, ancient religion, so the editor claims, always believed that these two qualities are intimately connected. Shaftesbury thus positions Whichcote within a larger trajectory reaching back to ancient times: As if Good-nature, and Religion, were Enemies: A Thing, indeed, so unthought of, amongst the Heathens; that PIETY (which was their best Word to signifie Religion) had more than half its Sence, in Natural and Good Affection; and stood not only for the Adoration, and Worship of God; but for the Natural Affections of Parents to their Children, and of Children to their Parents; of Men to their Native Country; and, indeed, of all Men in their several Relations one to another.85

Here again, natural affection is understood also as an enlarged feeling, a sympathy with mankind. Shaftesbury locates the concept within ancient religion, or more particularly in the notion of pietas,86 which – unlike the Latin religio or the Greek eusebia – expresses not only devoutness but also familial duty and love.87 Shaftesbury takes worship of the deity to naturally extend towards a disinterested good affection not towards one’s family only, but all fellow men, an assumption that perhaps overstresses what the Romans apprehended under the name of pietas. By being dated back to antiquity, the notion of natural affection becomes available to non-Christian discourses and, in particular, Shaftesbury’s virtue ethics informed by classical philosophy. Although the term sympathy thus proves inseparable from that of natural affection in the thought of Shaftesbury, the former is not altogether a borrowing from the Cambridge Platonists, as Seth Lobis has suggested.88 While Shaftesbury, in a Stoic vein, never loses sight of the sympathetic cosmos in which human nature is embed_____________ 83 84 85 86

87

88

Ibid., 205. Ibid., 255. Ibid., 52. One of the Latin and English dictionaries in Shaftesbury’s personal library indeed equates pietas with natural affection. The respective entry in the Dictionarium minus by Christopher Wase, n.p., reads »Natural affection, duty to God and man, holiness; also tenderneß and compassion (with the Romans) the Goddeß of Mercy«. In Cassell’s Latin Dictionary published by Simpson (1977), 449, »pĭĕtās« is translated as »dutifulness, dutiful conduct […] (1) towards the gods«, further as »(2) due compassion from the gods«, »(3) dutifulness towards one’s native country, patriotism« and finally, in last place, dutiful conduct »(4) towards relatives, devotion«. Lobis (2015), esp. 203.

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ded, he is interested less in speculative and more in practical philosophy. Both in his Askêmata and his published writings, he shows himself concerned with Men, Manners, Opinions, Times rather than mystic or metaphysical truths. In consequence, he does not adhere too closely to the Neoplatonist concept of magic or secret sympathy that first and foremost serves to explain the correspondence of things which are essentially different or far distant from one another.89 Rather, his stress is on the visible sympathising of those resembling parts that make up one body of mankind. The Spirit of Nature or Plastic Nature that, as Ralph Cudworth had asserted, is an intermediary between God and matter, and in which magic sympathy is seated,90 is of no great consequence to Shaftesbury’s ethical project.91 Nor could the theological undercurrent which Platonised Christianity always retains, however much it professes itself to the normativity of nature, have appealed to him. Reacting to the claims of Ronald Crane, Ernest Tuveson convincingly argued that although divine literature upon first view seems to anticipate the Enlightenment ethics of Shaftesbury, »the basic Christian pattern is always to be discerned in the background.«92 It is Shaftesbury’s achievement to have made away with such a Christian pattern. Although ancient philosophy and seventeenth-century theology are to some extent generated mutually in his interpretation, this allelopoiesis clearly takes place in favour of the former. Thus, natural affection is assimilated into a Stoic cosmos characterised by sympathy. To this both Askêmata and the preface to Select Sermons of Dr. Whichcote bear witness. Using Crane’s metaphor, Shaftesbury is responsible for a new branch in the genealogical family tree and so his friend of mankind, to whom the following is dedicated, is but distantly related to his forerunners.

Sympathy Reflected, or: How to become a Friend of Mankind »Miserable Sympathy!«93 Some but not all mentions of sympathetic connectedness in the work of Shaftesbury carry the connotation of perfect virtue. Whereas in some cases, fellow-feeling affords the individual with self-approving joy, in others it renders him utterly miserable.94 This has lead scholars to believe that the Earl’s concep_____________ 89

90 91

92 93 94

For instance, this view was held by Ralph Cudworth, whose work Lobis (2005) discussed at length. The seventeenth-century divine called all sympathy magical that secretly interconnects distinct entities such as the immaterial soul and the material body, cf. Cudworth, The True Intellectual System Of the Universe, esp. 162. Cf. Lobis (2015), 208–09. Shaftesbury mentions the concept of plastic nature only in the context of aesthetics. It inspires the poet who »forms a Whole, coherent and proportion’d in itself«, thus rendering him a »second Maker«, cf. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 110. Tuveson (1953), 270. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 428. In a Stoic vein, Shaftesbury criticises sympathy where it engages the individual towards things that lie outside of his choice, thus endangering his self-autonomy, cf. ibid., 255: »But neither way to

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tion of sympathy is somewhat ambiguous.95 The supposed ambiguity surfaces prominently in the first essay of Characteristicks titled »A Letter concerning Enthusiasm«. Here, Shaftesbury touches upon the principle of sympathy when he commends the religious magistracy, the members of which shall act compassionately towards parishioners rather than play on their fears. While infectious »Contact or Sympathy«, which makes the passion of fury spread through the gathered crowd of believers, is discredited as a source of »Disease«96 and false enthusiasm, the »kind Sympathy«97 with which the magistrate enters into the feelings of the furious multitude and, calming the passion, manages to divert it in a cheerful way, is highly praised. In view of this discrepancy, Seth Lobis has suggested that Shaftesbury struggles to uphold the supposition of a coherent cosmos and concedes to »a darker and more dangerous aspect«98 of sympathy. According to this reading, »Shaftesbury’s internalization of sympathy«, his attention towards sympathy’s effects on the psyche of social individuals, casts into doubt »the very existence of a sympathetic universe«; a sympathising self, it is argued, is subject to »the dangers of forming factions, waging wars, and succumbing to religious fanaticism.«99 It is true that both Askêmata and Characteristicks reflect on the power that the cosmic principle of sympathy exerts over rational beings, but is the deeply sceptical conclusion Lobis draws Shaftesbury’s own? To my mind, two objections need to be raised. Firstly, internalisation cannot be the reason for the Earl’s problematising of sympathy. Shaftesbury does not endorse the modern Lockean conception of subjectivity100 and so for him, the human self is not simply founded on consciousness.101 Rather, as the seminal study of Friedrich Uehlein has shown, he relies on and advances an ancient theory of selfhood. The true self takes after nature and this nature, being like man an organic unity, is a singular, simple, and coherent self, all parts of which conspire to one common end as they sympathise with one another. To feel with the whole is the constitutive characteristic of self-sameness or identity; the self _____________ Sympathize, or feel as they feel, when they take either this or the other (wtever is ἀπροαιρετον) for Good or Ill. […] Be True, then, to thy Self.« 95 Cf. Mullan (1990), 29 and Lobis (2015), 204. 96 Shaftesbury, »A Letter concerning Enthusiasm«, 324. 97 Ibid., 326. 98 Lobis (2015), 204. 99 Ibid. 100 Cf. Locke, An Essay concerning Human Understanding (thenceforth cited as EHU), 341: »Self is that conscious thinking thing, […] which is sensible, or conscious of Pleasure and Pain, capable of Happiness or Misery, and so in concerned for it self, as far as that consciousness extends.« 101 This is a very common misunderstanding. Many scholars claim that the author of Askêmata explores and dramatises a post-Lockean and plural self, cf. Marshall (1986), esp. 35–53, Klein (1994), 70–90 and Branch (2006), 91–133. This however goes against Shaftesbury’s own account of human psychology in his essay »Soliloquy«, which I discuss further below. A more nuanced reading is Taylor’s (1989), 258, who claimed that the author of Askêmata adheres to classical theories of selfhood, but emphasises the significant role of feeling: »Shaftesbury himself seems to me too close to the ancient Stoic model to have himself taken this step [towards modern subjectivity, my note], at least fully and unambiguously. But his term ›affection‹ strongly suggests internalization.«

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is thus not autonomous, but woven into and expressive of the sympathetic cosmos, as it were.102 Sympathy does not endanger or »cast the self into oblivion«.103 Rather, it constitutes the self in the first place. By embracing the classical concept of selfhood, Shaftesbury emphasises the self’s normativity rather than its subjectivity. The second criticism, which I will enlarge upon in the following, is not less fundamental. When reading Shaftesbury, it is essential to categorically distinguish between that impartial fellow-feeling by which one man is co-sensitively connected to mankind and partial sympathies which exist among the congenial minded on account of shared subjective features. Whereas the former allows us to be true to nature and our natural self, the latter, insofar as they are at conflict with the general sympathy of the species, are arbitrary and unnatural as they give rise to party politics, religious sects, and fanciful friendships. »If I have no Sympathy with my Friends«, Shaftesbury asks himself in Askêmata, »how shall I be sensible towards Society, or feel any such thing as Friendship?«104 The reply he gives himself is this: »Stay therefore, till thou canst feel this in another way. for, this is not genuine Sociall-feeling.«105 In order to be genuine, fellow-feeling must be directed at the entire species and not a small part of it merely. Again, the conjunction of sympathy and natural affection is apparent when Shaftesbury discusses the problem of partiality also with respect to the latter concept. He must remind himself »not to think any more of Naturall affection in ye imperfect & vulgar sence; but according to the just sense & meaning of the word, & what it imports.«106 When we consider that natural affection is grounded in sympathetic nature and thus acknowledge a higher relation to the whole, we will aspire to be not only a father, but a father of mankind. With reference to Epictetus,107 Shaftesbury inquires »But shall I not bemoan my Child?« and answers himself »Wretch! consider what it is thou callst Naturall Affection. Wch way canst thou have Naturall Affection, whilst this thou callst so, is still retaind?«108 What comes to the fore in these soliloquies is the crucial distinction between partial and impartial sympathies, all of which are disinterested. Returning to the example mentioned above, it may be assumed that contrary to the unqualified sympathising of the gathered group of believers, the kind sympathy of the magistrate is rooted in a regard for the species. He is a father not only to the people of his parish but mankind, and this veritable kindness qualifies him as a leader in point of religion and morals. However, though Shaftesbury values an enlarged affection of fellow-feeling over partial sympathies, he does not deny the latter their inherent good tendency. For him there is no truly dark side to sympathy or natural affection. Even as these are biased and so at length render the agent miserable, they are sure to retain some inferior _____________ 102 103 104 105 106 107 108

Cf. Uehlein (1976), 54–70. Lobis (2015), 233. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 190. Ibid. Ibid., 79. Cf. Arrian, Encheiridion, XI. Shaftesbury, Askêmata, 78.

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moral quality. The vilest criminal, when he refuses to betray his accomplices out of partial sympathy, so Shaftesbury points out, retains something of good nature by acting disinterestedly towards his fellows, he »has certainly some Principle of Virtue, however he may misapply it.«109 Thus Shaftesbury’s reflections on the ill effects of partial fellow-feeling do not cast into doubt his ontological belief in a coherent sympathetic cosmos. Rather, in adopting an epistemological perspective, the Earl raises the question how man can aspire to the station of a father of mankind and love the species better than any of its members. An answer to this problem of partiality is provided in the subsequent second essay of Characteristicks called »Sensus Communis: An Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour«. Here Shaftesbury is strong on the point that man’s inferior natural affection may, upon the whole, have the worst effects. In smaller parties, fellowfeeling readily finds its object and gives rise to factions, conspiracies or even the horrors of war. Sympathy is among comrades-in-arms as well as members of one political or religious movement. Meanwhile, in view of the greater community of mankind, »close Sympathy and conspiring Virtue is apt to lose it-self, for want of Direction, in so wide a Field.«110 With that general notion of a commonwealth or mankind, »[n]o visible Band is form’d«, the fellowship is conceived »not sensibly, but in Idea«.111 This is exactly where the problem lies: how can the individual have a sense of »the Interest of the World in general«, and sympathise with the greater whole, if this is only »a kind of remote Philosophical Object«?112 How can an enlarged sympathy with the species be maintained by individuals that necessarily move in close circles? Shaftesbury offers a solution to this problem in that he conceives of what may be called reflected sympathy, better known as moral sense, which allows the individual to sympathise with and befriend mankind. Shaftesbury is often regarded as the author of the claim that internal sensations, when surveyed by the mind, give rise to a reflected internal or moral sense which determines their ethical quality. However, he was not the first to address the question of moral feeling more generally. Since antiquity, a few authors have asserted that a sense of morality exists. It features already in ancient theories of friendship which cannot have gone unnoticed by Shaftesbury.113 In the ninth book of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle suggested that the tie among virtuous friends is a moral kind of he_____________ 109 110 111 112 113

Shaftesbury, »Inquiry«, 82. Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 80. Ibid. Ibid. Shaftesbury’s biographer Richard Voitle (1984), 8, pointed out that young Lord Ashley’s curriculum, as devised by his tutor John Locke, was strong on (ancient) virtue ethics: »As practical guides to virtue Locke recommends Cicero, Pufendorf, Aristotle, and above all, Scripture«. The third Earl’s private copies of Aristotelian and Ciceronian works, which I looked up in the library at St. Giles House, show no significant marginal notes, however. There are only a few instances of pencil marking throughout Shaftesbury’s copy of Ciceronis Philosophicorum (Geneva 1580), namely in On Ends and On Duties. Only the Stoic Paradoxes show underlining in ink as well as a reference to Plutarch in what appears to be the Earl’s own hand.

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doné resembling aesthetic feeling.114 Cicero in De Amicitia likewise supposed that man is furnished with moral affections and asserted that the sympathy interconnecting the species expands into an evaluative sensus amoris cherishing the virtue of a friend.115 Certainly, however, Moral Sentimentalism proper, i.e. an ethics which in point of moral judgment trusts everything to these ethical feelings and nothing to reason, takes root only in the Scottish Enlightenment. In this long line of transformation from ancient times to the mid-eighteenth century, the thought of Shaftesbury may perhaps be considered a ›hinge‹. Though he was absolutely taken with the ancients, the third Earl also critically responded to and was inspired by the philosophy of his childhood tutor John Locke. He certainly considered the first book of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding as a provocation to his moral realism. Here the empiricist philosopher Locke famously reduces the human mind to a blank slate and claims that all knowledge is gained empirically.116 According to this premise, there can be no truths on which mankind can universally agree. Even the idea of virtue must originate in individual experience and thus men are at variance on the point of morality. The Lockean new way of ideas results in moral relativism: »’Twas Mr. Locke that struck at all fundamentals«, Shaftesbury writes, who »threw all order and virtue out of the world, and made the very ideas of these […] unnatural, and without foundation in our minds.«117 In consequence of this, Locke’s Essay has an egoist tendency. It not only does away with innate notions, it also attempts to refute the innateness of internal senses that are generally believed to be instinctive. In particular, Locke questions the existence of natural affection such as parents have for their children and thereby casts doubt on man’s essential good nature. The brutality of savage and ancient nations sufficiently shows, Locke asserts in his Essay, that there is nothing of nature in parental feeling. Very much against his pupil who praises the ancients for their natural affection, he claims that it was an »uncondemned Practice amongst the Greeks and Romans, to expose, without pity or remorse, their innocent Infants.«118 It is not hard to see why Shaftesbury regards his tutor’s empiricist doctrine as dangerously immoral. With good reason his philosophical project has commonly been regarded as an attempt to re-establish the epistemic certainty and moral assurance Locke had called into question.119

_____________ 114 Cf. Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, IX, 1170a. 115 Cf. Cicero, On Friendship, XXVII. Shaftesbury apparently made use of Ciceronian terminology when in »Sensus Communis«, 116, he said with regard to a common sense of morality: »The Venustum, the Honestum, the Decorum of Things, will force its way.« 116 Cf. Locke, EHU, 48–65. 117 Shaftesbury to Michael Ainsworth, 3 June 1709, in: Rand (1900), 403. 118 Locke, EHU, 73–74. 119 As pointed out by Norton (1968), Shaftesbury believed Locke’s teachings to be more dangerous than the egoist theory of Hobbes. For a good discussion of the Earl’s refutation of Lockean sensualism, cf. Rivers (2000), 85–152, esp. 124–29. On Locke as an anti-Stoic as opposed to Shaftesbury’s Stoic leanings, cf. Carey (2006), 34–68.

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Arguably, this is the main objective in the essay »Sensus Communis«.120 Styled as a letter to a friend, it depicts a scene in which a circle of intimate companions is engaged in a dispute at their club, all in turn appealing to common sense. The meaning of this term, the narrator makes clear, cannot be general opinion, as the generality of mankind cannot be found to agree in matters of religion, policy or morals. Certainly, common sense is not merely a bundle of opinions which the majority of a community comes to agree upon in social interchange. If this were the case, »That which was according to common Sense to day, wou’d be the contrary to morrow, or soon after.«121 If it is justly called upon to settle matters of dispute, man’s sensus communis must undoubtedly have a surer foundation. To have any proper meaning, it must exist beforehand and be lodged in human nature. Against the scepticism forwarded by his tutor, Shaftesbury now explores »what certain Knowledg or Assurance of things may be recover’d«.122 For this purpose, he draws up two imaginative scenarios that turn the argument with which »the credulous Mr. Locke« disproves innate senses, namely his »stories of wild nations«,123 against himself. If an Ethiopian were transported to Europe during Carnival, Shaftesbury assumes, he would assuredly, upon discovering that what he sees are not true faces but mere masks, laugh at the folly of the Europeans. Should the Ethiopian, however, mistake the masks for real countenances and, upon perceiving an unmasked face, laugh at nature, he would in his turn become ridiculous. Ridicule effectively tells apart the reasonable from the laughable: »Truth, ’tis suppos’d, may bear all Lights: and one of those principal Lights […] is Ridicule«.124 Shaftesbury considers the scenario of the Ethiopian at the Carnival as a metaphor for the opinions of men, thus emphasising that whatever may be the fashion in a nation at a particular point of time, there is only one single »Face of Truth«.125 The standard of nature inevitably comes to the fore when opinions are subjected to the test of ridicule, which will distinguish truths from trifles, nature from art and good from ill.126 Man is however not wholly dependent upon this »amicable Collision«127 of reasoning minds, this testing of sentiments by means of ridicule, in discovering immutable norms. If debate cannot thus determine a matter, as in the case of the gentlemen at their club, the company may _____________ 120 Shaftesbury defended innatism also in Miscellaneous Reflections, 258, where he claimed that man is possessed of a »natural Anticipation in behalf of NATURE«. 121 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 42. 122 Ibid., 44. 123 Shaftesbury to Michael Ainsworth, 3 June 1709, in: Rand (1900), 403. For a discussion of Shaftesbury’s response to Locke on the problem of diversity, cf. Carey (2006), 98–149. 124 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 18. 125 Ibid., 48. 126 A precondition for this is that the opinions are voiced freely in a society of equals. For Shaftesbury, liberty is the first requisite for the flourishing of truth and virtue. For an account of how he draws on and contributes to the English libertarian tradition associated with Whiggism, cf. Klein (1994), 195– 212. 127 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 22.

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take recourse to their sensus communis which supplies them with intimations of what is universally right or wrong. In the second scenario, common sense features as the chief means of deciding questions of morality. Should the addressee of his letter have lived in Asia under the reign of the Magi, the author suggests, he surely would have condemned the barbarous practices of that society. His common sense would have given him moral displeasure when witnessing human sacrifices and the like. However, if he had given way to unqualified resentment towards every aspect of this culture and condemned all opinions held by the people of the Magi simply because they were foreign, he would have acted barbarous himself. Should he have »deny’d every natural and social Affection«128 in them, he would have acted contrary to common sense. Not even the greatest barbarians are void of sympathy, however ill their customs may be. Common sense would never disavow this, since natural affection is its proper object. Thus what Shaftesbury calls sensus communis consists not simply in the fashionable doxa that the community we live in has agreed upon. Being an affection towards sympathies, it discovers a universal standard of virtue to us and thus makes us sensible of what is immutably good or ill. To have common sense, what is it? In this point again, Shaftesbury is absolutely taken with the ancients as the footnote which explains »why the Latin Title of Sensus Communis has been given to this second Treatise«129 sufficiently shows. He here promotes koinonoēmosynē to the systematic centre of his moral epistemology. This term, which is cognate with and translates to the Latin sensus communis, denominates an internal sense. It allows the individual to access his innate notions or ›seedlike‹ principles, which the Stoics called logoi spermatikoi.130 It thus furnishes him with prereflective knowledge of, for instance, the deity or virtue. In his lengthy footnote, the author of Characteristicks considers this sensus communis more exclusively as a source of moral understanding: »Some of the most ingenious Commentators« of the life history and work of Marcus Aurelius, Shaftesbury claims, »make this Common Sense […] signify Sense of Publick Weal, and of the Common Interest; Love of the Community or Society, Natural Affection, Humanity, Obligingness«.131 The third Earl here claims to fully agree with the comments of Thomas Gataker and Meric Casaubon in their translations of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, as well as Isaac Casaubon and Salmasius in their rendering of Capitolinus’ biography of that Roman Emperor. A closer look at the two former authors will suffice to show how Shaftesbury pins his own interpretation on them. Early on in his exercises, Marcus reminds himself of how his adoptive father Antonius Pius always conducted himself according to koinonoēmosynē.132 Gataker, in his Latin translation of this passage, refers to Antonius as _____________ 128 Ibid., 54. 129 Shaftesbury, Printed Notes to the Characteristicks, 276. 130 Carey (2006), 110–116, argued that Shaftesbury defends innatism against Locke by drawing on the Stoic notion of prolepsis. 131 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 70. 132 Cf. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, I, 16.

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»civiliter admodum« (»very civil«) rather than using the Latin equivalent sensus communis.133 His comment defines the term as a disposition to subordinate all thoughts or efforts to the public.134 Meanwhile, Meric Casaubon gives no English translation for koinonoēmosynē at all. The annotation Shaftesbury is likely to have had in mind refers to a kindred sentence in this section translated into English as »having a respect unto men only as men, and to the equity of the things themselves«.135 Casaubon’s respective commentary singles out parallel passages throughout the work that discuss the disinterestedness of good acts and the comfort of being virtuous.136 Obviously, the emphasis is a little different in Shaftesbury who more expressly conceives of sensus communis as a moral feeling or liking directed towards natural affection. It seems as though the author of Characteristicks were trying to substantiate his interpretation of moral sense by highly selective readings of the two commentators. It is then perhaps with good reason that Shaftesbury has been suspected to have availed himself of further sources for his interpretation of moral sense. To some extent at least, the Earl comes to understand the ancient accounts of sensus communis not merely in the light of the authors stated above, but also the elaborations on moral sense of his more immediate predecessors. Among the Cambridge Platonists, the supposition of an internal sense of morality gained currency. Ernest Tuveson suggested that it is more especially Thomas Burnet, a disciple of the Cambridge Platonists, who anticipates Shaftesbury’s anti-Lockean argument of innate morality. Both Burnet and the author of the Characteristicks, Tuveson argued, disprove Locke’s empiricist refutation of inborn principles by taking recourse to the moral epistemology current in the thought of Henry More and Herbert of Cherbury. According to these theologians, man is furnished with a connatural and sensitive faculty that allows him to discern virtue. This internal sense they account for by the tenet that man’s mind is the image of the divine intellect.137 Clearly, the underlying theological pattern of such interpretations of moral sense does not agree well with the thought of Shaftesbury. The motif itself seems to have struck a sympathetic chord with him, however. Burnet’s direct influence on Shaftsbury is doubtful, as Tuveson himself conceded, yet it is with certainty that the Earl comes across the notion of an innate sense distinguishing right from wrong when editing the sermons of Whichcote. One of the Cambridge Platonist’s homilies, which attempts to define the true Christian temper and enlarges on the question of how others become sensible of such a good disposition, receives the editor’s special attention. Shaftesbury’s introduction quotes from one of its key passages when it charac_____________ 133 134 135 136

Marcus Aurelius, Marci Antonini Imperatoris de rebus suis, trans. Gataker, 5. Cf. ibid., »Annotationes«, 31: »qod utilitati publicæ omnes cogitationes impendebat«. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, trans. Meric Casaubon, 10. Ibid., »Notes upon the first Booke«, 11–12. Although the surviving Stoic sources do not discuss the question of moral sense, Cicero is strong on the point that the philosophers of the Athenian Porch asserted the existence of a certain inclination or disposition of the soul towards virtue, cf. Tusculan Disputations, IV, 34, 53. 137 Cf. Tuveson (1948).

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terises Whichcote as a »Preacher of Good-nature« who sermonises »in Defence of Natural Goodness«:138 For, there is in Man, a secret Genius to Humanity; a Bias that inclines him to a Regard of all of his own Kind. For, whatsoever some have said; Man’s Nature is not such an untoward Thing (unless it be abused,) but that there is a secret Sympathy in Human Nature, with Vertue and Honesty; with Fairness and good Behaviour; which gives a Man an Interest even in bad Men; ⋆and whereby they are even before they are aware, inclined to reverence and honour such a Person. And tho’ through Passion, and Interest, and bad Custom, they are put off from the Practice of It; yet they cannot but approve it, and them that practice it:139

Here again we see a refutation of egoism. Whichcote claims that human beings are naturally inclined to socialise and finds that universal fellow-feeling makes them take an interest even in those who they deem ill-natured. Thus, he agrees with Shaftesbury that man can love the greatest miscreants by way of an enlarged affection of sympathy directed at the species. This alone is no sufficient defence against Locke’s sensualist denial of innate virtue, however. Whichcote insists that the principle of sympathy furthermore makes the greatest criminals sensible of the natural affection of their benefactors and so inevitably inspires them with feelings of approbation. For Shaftesbury, this notion of a sympathy with sympathy substantiates »the Belief of any immediate Good or Happiness in Vertue, as a Thing any way suitable to our Make«.140 Only as the Cambridge Platonist makes a case also for a moral sympathising, Shaftesbury appears to suggest, he can effectively advocate human good nature against the threats of relativism. The existence of a connatural sense of right and wrong emanating from sympathy reassures us that virtue is immutable and has a solid foundation in the human mind. Certainly, in this respect, Shaftesbury is neither simply an epigone of Cambridge Platonism nor a disciple of the ancients and their commentators only. In his interpretation of moral feeling that combines or hybridises aspects of both these traditions, he goes somewhat beyond the assertions of all his predecessors. Already in the 1698 version of »An Inquiry Concerning Virtue«, he spells out the theme in his own terms and so conceives of a distinctly modern moral epistemology that would provide the backdrop for further transformations of sympathy in the Scottish Enlightenment.141 Notwithstanding that he disagrees with the first book of Locke’s Essay which refutes the existence of innate principles, Shaftesbury makes use of the Lockean terminology put forward in the second. There his tutor claims that man’s ideas are conveyed into the mind either by sensation, i.e. impressions made upon the organs of sense, or by reflection upon the mind’s own activities, or lastly by both _____________ 138 139 140 141

Shaftesbury, Select Sermons, 58. Ibid., 264–265. Ibid., 56. Unless otherwise stated, my references are to the 1711 version of the essay printed in Characteristicks rather than the (probably unauthorised) 1698 original published by John Toland.

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sensation and reflection in form of a reflected sense.142 The Lockean distinction between sensation and reflected sensation serves Shaftesbury to make explicit the categorical difference between a spontaneous good affection originating in human sympathy and a moral sympathising evaluating the former. He tells apart distinctly what previous authors tended to confound:143 IN a Creature capable of forming general Notions of Things, not only the outward Beings which offer themselves to the Sense, are the Objects of the Affection; but the very Actions themselves, and the Affections of Pity, Kindness, Gratitude, and their Contrarys, being brought into the Mind by Reflection, become Objects. So that, by means of this reflected Sense, there arises another kind of Affection towards those very Affections themselves, which have been already felt, and are now become the Subject of a new Liking or Dislike.144

To sympathise with or have natural affection towards sense objects is common to all animals, yet man alone is capable of second-order affections that respond to mind objects. When the quality of moral goodness which inheres in natural affection is reflected, a new feeling arises towards the kind affection itself. Certainly, man aspires to »Goodness« in that he is »led by some immediate Affection, directly, and not accidentally, to Good, and against Ill.«145 Kind sympathy provides the ›seeds‹ of virtue, as it were. The normative content of right and wrong inheres in it prior to any reflection. Yet man as a rational being cannot stop here: So that if a Creature be generous, kind, constant, compassionate; yet if he cannot reflect on what he himself does, or sees others do, so as to take notice of what is worthy or honest; and make that Notice or Conception of Worth and Honesty to be an Object of his Affection, he has not the Character of being virtuous: for thus, and no otherwise, he is capable of having a Sense of Right or Wrong; a Sentiment or Judgment of what is done thro just, equal, and good Affection, or the contrary.146

By his conception of a reflected internal or moral sense, Shaftesbury effectively distinguishes mere goodness, which he allows to all sensible creatures, from genuine virtue. Let me emphasise again that contrary to Locke, Shaftesbury supposes the reflected sense of morality to be a sensus communis: the idea of goodness it provides access to is not an idea in the Lockean sense, but a connatural preconception.147 Shaftesbury asserts that man as a rational animal is obliged to recognise the universal _____________ 142 Cf. Locke, EHU, 104–118, 127–128. 143 For instance, Cicero translated both koinonoēmosynē and sumpatheia into Latin as consensus, cf. e.g. Tusculan Disputations, I, 35 and On the Nature of the Gods, III, 28. Common sense and sympathy are nearly allied since antiquity and so morally good affections are often not categorically distinguished from moral evaluative affections. 144 Shaftesbury, »Inquiry«, 66. 145 Ibid., 60. 146 Ibid., 70. 147 In a letter to Michael Ainsworth from the 3rd of June 1709, Shaftesbury wrote that he prefers the term connatural to the term innate, the suggestion being that virtue, for instance, is not so much an inborn distinct idea, but rather something embedded in the sensitive nature of man. Cf. Rand (1900), 403.

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and immutable notion of virtue of which his moral feeling gives him a first indication. When fully rationalised, generosity, kindness and compassion give birth to »rational Affections«148 which render their author truly virtuous if he but moulds his character according to them. Shaftesbury then is no sentimentalist who trusts moral judgment to feeling alone. As an advocate of (Stoic) virtue ethics, he accredits an important function to man’s reasoning faculty. Although Shaftesbury concedes that moral goodness consists in a pre-reflective feeling that inspires actions effecting the welfare of the system, he also stresses that »sound and well-establish’d Reason […] alone can constitute a just Affection«.149 Reason, namely, is attuned to the truths of morality and so a rational insight into the quality of disinterestedness, the nature of goodness, is a requisite for the establishment of virtuous character. Like the author himself in his Askêmata, the reasoner needs to enter into a soliloquy and inquire into the nature and extent of sympathy. He will meet the demands of virtue when he contemplates the intelligible sympathetic order of the universe and realises that by acting upon his natural affection, he is conducive, firstly, to the good of the species and, finally, the all of nature. Having understood and internalised what it means to live a life kata phusin, he feels a kind regard for mankind and the all-intelligent, wisely-governed cosmos. The problem that sympathy has a tendency to be partial is now resolved. Whereas »PARTIAL AFFECTION, or natural Affection in part […] has no foundation or establishment in reason«, sympathetic feeling when fully rationalised becomes »equal towards the Society, or Whole«150 and so allows the individual to be disinterested in that higher relation with the species. Reflected sympathy gives rise to a comprehensive conception of morality that, once it is established in virtuous character, connects the individual co-sensitively to its kind. Since the cosmic system is (in good Stoic fashion) understood as a living being endowed with perception, man’s moral pleasures or pains are de facto a sympathising with the good or harm done to the species as an integral part of that cosmos. The man of virtue thus finds himself in a mutual, sympathetic relation to humanity, he is as Shaftesbury puts it a friend of mankind. Friendship as understood by the ancients is founded on moral feeling and so accordingly, for the author of Characteristicks, it becomes the epitome of human sympathy. While partial friendships that have no sure foundation in virtue render a man miserable by keeping him from following his rational nature, his impartial bond with mankind by way of reflected sympathy or moral sense affords him a certain and sound enjoyment of the pleasures of fellow-feeling.151

_____________ 148 Shaftesbury, »Inquiry«, 78. 149 Ibid., 82. 150 Ibid., 199. Exceptionally, this reference is to the 1698 edition of the essay, where Shaftesbury makes it clearer that natural affection, though ever disinterested, is impartial only when rationalised. 151 Certainly, the term friend of mankind employed in Characteristicks reflects this aspect of mutuality better than the expression father of mankind Shaftesbury had used in his private Askêmata.

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The Moral Effects of Fiction: Sympathetic Imagination avant la lettre The foregoing has explained how, according to the moral epistemology of Shaftesbury, universal sympathy is introduced to the human mind through sensation and must thereupon be embraced by reason to count as virtuous. What still needs to be clarified is how man’s imagination, the faculty which allows him to form images without a direct input of his senses and prior to his understanding, may serve the cause of sympathy? There are certainly instances of human sympathising in which the fancy plays no role at all. When the person sympathised with is within our sight and hearing, our sympathy may be no more than a sensory response based on the physiological co-sensitive connection that exists between all members of mankind. Such is the case with contagious yawning as described by Plato.152 More often, however, some mental image is required when we sympathise, a fact which already the ancients seem to have been aware of.153 However that may be, it is certain that Shaftesbury developed a deeper interest in this matter. Having established sympathy also as a moral term, he explored how the writer of fiction can promote goodness and virtue by appealing to a reader’s imagination. In his poetological reflections, the English philosopher observed that when readers are affected by the perceptions of a fictional character or, what is more, they bring his case home to themselves, this has something to do with fellow-feeling. Likewise, he noted, writers who enter into the heroes of their own making to create true-to-life personages are inspired by a kind of sympathy. Thus Shaftesbury raises the question how sumpatheia relates to the imagination in its three basic functions: sensory, propositional and creative.154 Anticipating the Scottish philosophies of sympathy, he implies that fellow-feeling in idea may be based on either a quasi-perception, the adoption of a perspective distinct from that of experience or the conception of probable affections in possible worlds. The two latter acts of the mind would later in the century be conceived of as sympathetic imagination. Does Shaftesbury then agree with David Hume, Adam Smith, and others that this faculty can sufficiently account for moral sentiments? Whether he is willing to _____________ 152 Cf. page 18 in this chapter. 153 For instance, this is evident from the Ciceronian epilogues, which use strongly figurative language to arouse fellow-feeling. Apparently, Cicero is aware that the mind sometimes needs to form images to be sensible of sympathy. This ›sentimentalism‹ is what made his epilogues attractive to David Hume, the author of the sympathetic imagination proper, cf. »Of Tragedy«, 219: »All the passions, excited by eloquence, are agreeable in the highest degree, as well as those which are moved by painting and the theatre. The epilogues of Cicero are, on this account chiefly, the delight of every reader of taste; and it is difficult to read some of them without the deepest sympathy and sorrow.« 154 James Engell (1981) has famously shown that the notion of the creative imagination emerged only in the eighteenth century and had little precedent. The three basic functions of the imagination, which were explored further in the Scottish Enlightenment, as I argue in ch. 4 in this book, have more recently been analysed in some detail by Gregory Currie and Ian Ravenscroft (2002) who, 89– 107, differentiate between the perceptual and propositional forms of imagining while also, 8–11, distinguishing creative from recreative (a kind of propositional) imagination. In the same vein, Neil Van Leeuwen (2013/2014) speaks of imagistic, attitude and constructive imagining.

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trust this much to sympathies of the fancy is the question that needs answering in the remainder of this chapter. Imaginative sympathies of a sensory kind Shaftesbury discusses in part four of the essay »Sensus Communis«. Proceeding on the premise that to »recommend Wisdom and Virtue […] in a way of Pleasantry«155 is superior to moral preaching, he here makes a case for poets as the most qualified teachers to instruct in virtue. To please by the beauties of language is the common end of poetry, he finds, yet literary compositions should also affect or move and thus have a moral purpose. Authors must not only be able to discern how to afford pleasure by their art, of which their »Sense of what is naturally graceful and becoming«156 (i.e. their connatural sense of beauty or else their training in the arts) gives them some indication. They must also be well acquainted with human characters and affections because »that which raises their Genius the most, and by which they effectually move others, is purely Manners, and the moral Part«.157 Shaftesbury remarks in passing that sympathy in the form of »a friendly social View«158 is crucial also for poetic invention, yet his focus here is less on the writer’s expression than the effect produced on the reader. The productions of the poet, he is sure to point out, aim towards »the Pleasure and Good of others«.159 It is then from a reader response point of view that the phenomenon of sympathy in idea is negotiated: [T]he most delightful, the most engaging and pathetick, is that which is drawn from real Life and from the Passions. Nothing affects the Heart like that which is purely from it-self, and of its own nature; such as the Beauty of Sentiments; the Grace of Actions; the Turn of Characters, and the Proportions and Features of a human Mind. This Lesson of Philosophy, even a Romance, a Poem, or a Play may teach us; whilst the fabulous Author leads us with such Pleasure thro the Labyrinth of the Affections, and interests us, whether we will or no, in the Passions of his Heroes and Heroines […].160

Shaftesbury here observes that when a romance, poem or play moves us on behalf of feigned characters, this fellow-feeling in idea is both involuntary and necessary, exactly like that in reality. We are affected »whether we will or no«.161 Natural affection or sympathy, this »Force of Nature«, extends towards fictional personages by means of our sensory imagination, provided that the passions are »drawn from real Life«.162 The realistic representation of what passes in the human mind, its perceptions and thoughts, is crucial for affecting the reader on behalf of fictional characters. Adherence to the Aristotelian principle of mimesis, Shaftesbury suggests further _____________ 155 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 110. 156 Ibid. Traditionally, the sense of beauty is considered analogous to the moral sense, cf. e.g. Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, IX, 1170a. 157 Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 112. 158 Ibid. 159 Ibid. 160 Ibid. 161 Ibid. 162 Ibid.

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below, has its primary purpose in moving the audience. The aim of fiction must be to convey »Honesty, and Moral Truth«,163 which requires that readers sympathise as they would in real life, given that their sense of moral right and wrong is de facto a reflected sympathy. With this everyone must agree who »is Scholar enough to read the antient Philosopher, or his modern Copists, upon the nature of a Dramatick and Epick Poem«,164 Shaftesbury claims. In other words, the Enlightenment philosopher asserts that there is an ethical dimension to fictional writing in a realist vein since it allows for the imaginative expansion of sympathy in quasi-sensations. Insofar as the poet allows us to indulge in our sympathies for the fictional other, he surely promotes the cause of goodness, namely as he inspires natural affection. However, virtue is not as easily encouraged. This is because sensory imaginations do not make us feel more with our species than the particular personages represented. Such sympathy in idea partakes of the same partiality as any natural affection in reality. Shaftesbury explains this with the following example: when we read about a man who has become the object of divine wrath, we still feel for his sufferings, even though we know him to be a vicious sinner, because there is »a Partiality remaining in us, towards Creatures of the same Make and Figure with our-selves«.165 As long as we dwell exclusively on this fictional character and one sensory imagination follows another, we remain in a »Labyrinth of the Affections«166 which admits of no moral reflection, no sympathy with the right or wrong felt by the body of mankind. Therefore, Shaftesbury calls for »a strong View of Merit, in a generous Character, oppos’d to some detestably vile one«167 in all literary compositions. He is certain that when there is sufficient moral contrast between good and ill dispositions or characters, we readers will rationalise our sympathies, feel the exact moral worth that is in them and so consequently behold VIRTUE in a new Light, […] discern the Beauty of Honesty, and the reality of those Charms, which before we understood not to be either natural, or powerful.168

It follows that the emotive appeal of literary works is no ethical end in itself, as sentimentalists would claim later on in the century.169 Though the sensory imaginations of readers give rise to their natural affection, it is only with the realisation of virtue that they work towards their moral improvement. Shedding light on the moral psychology of readers and writers alike, the essay »Soliloquy: or, Advice to an Author« comments on the (sympathetic) imagination in its propositional function. This text, which theorises the method of philosophical exercise practiced in Askêmata, is based on the Stoic assumption that we need to command our affections by means of reason because otherwise these will respond to _____________ 163 164 165 166 167 168 169

Ibid., 120. Ibid. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 290. Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 112. Ibid., 118. Ibid., 120. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, 87 and passim.

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evil fancies.170 Accordingly, from the perspective of Stoicism, the imagination is morally dubious. Shaftesbury nonetheless acknowledges its significance not only for sympathising with those who are out of the reach of our senses, but also for our selfimprovement in soliloquy. Self-converse as understood by Shaftesbury requires an imaginary division of the self into two parties which, thus erected, enter into dialogue. Certainly, this partition proposed by the imagination has nothing at all to do with modern self-reflexivity.171 By imagining a demon companion, the author of Characteristicks finds, we perceive that we are composed of two parts. One of these is inclined to reason whereas the other is appetitive: [T]he very utmost the wise Antients ever meant by this Daemon-Companion, I conceive to have been no more than enigmatically to declare, »that we had each of us a Patient in our-self; that we were properly our own Subjects of Practice; and that we then became due Practitioners, when by virtue of an intimate Receß, we cou’d discover a certain Duplicity of Soul, and divide our-selves into two Partys.« One of these, as they suppos’d, wou’d immediately approve himself a venerable Sage; and with an air of Authority erect himself our Counsellor and Governor; whilst the other Party, who had nothing in him besides what was base and servile, wou’d be contented to follow and obey.172

Shaftesbury here takes recourse to the motif of the Socratic daimonion which he associates with a psychology of man reminiscent of Plato’s theory of the divided soul. Plato’s Politeia distinguishes between the logistikon or logical part and the epithymetikon or appetitive part of soul. Later, a third member, the high-spirited thymoeides, complicates this dichotomy.173 While for Plato the logistikon ideally controls the epithymetikon (in the course of which it may be aided by the thymoeides), Shaftesbury pictures a dialogic structure. Conversing with the daimonion serves as a »vocal Looking-Glass«174 for the self. Man relates to his thoughts or sentiments in the medium of language. When emotions or ideas are given »Voice and Accent«175 in soliloquy, the reasonable will at length prevail over the unreasonable. The discourse man holds with his demon companion, the herald of reason, thus establishes a firm but non-coercive command of the soul.176 Imagined as a partner in dialogue, this »certain Inspector or _____________ 170 According to Stoic doctrine, man’s conceptions or phantasiai determine his affections and actions, cf. e.g. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, esp. IV, 3, IX, 3 and XII, 22. Conceptions formed from sense perceptions are evaluated as either right or wrong in synkatathesis, i.e. a rational assent or dissent, cf. e.g. Cicero, Academics, II, 37. Similarly, Shaftesbury finds in »Sensus Communis«, 250, that in the »Foundery of Imagination […] the Appetites and Desires are fabricated. Hence they derive their Privilege and Currency. If I can stop the Mischief here, and prevent false Coinage; I am safe.« 171 According to Shaftesbury, the self does not experience self-division as the essence of its being, but rather a means of becoming self-same. Put differently, this division into two parts is a way of coming to terms with the normative self, cf. the current chapter, 29–30. 172 Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 60. 173 Cf. Plato, Republic, 4, 439d–440b. 174 Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 64. 175 Ibid., 62. 176 It follows that the daimonion assists man to give birth to his innate reason (rather than directing where reason fails, as Socrates claimed).

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Auditor«177 persuades his interlocutor to think and act reasonable. Accordingly, the Delphic inscription gnōthi seautón, which is commonly attributed to Socrates, is interpreted as an appeal to »Divide your-self«.178 A sound management of our passions (as well as the fancies they are based on) requires a formal self-division, Shaftesbury suggests. This of course is achieved by means of propositional imagination, the adoption of distinct perspectives or attitudes in idea. Such imaginary projection is performed also by the reader of fiction, the third Earl points out. It is here that sympathy, albeit more in the modern post-Shaftesburian sense of sympathetic imagination, plays a decisive role. This is exemplified in the story of a Grecian prince who »was deeply struck with the Fancy of conquering Worlds«.179 Notably, Shaftesbury embeds a dialectic dialogue within his narrative. An unnamed friend asks his prince to what purpose he intends to triumph over his enemies: »What shall we do, when we are become thus happy, and have obtain’d our highest Wish?«180 To this the monarch replies that if the whole world were under his power, then surely they could be happy and drink in good company. His friend, a veritable Socrates by his side, questions whether they cannot enjoy this even now without bringing bloodshed to mankind? The unreasonableness of new conquests appears but too plain. Shaftesbury suggests that such dialogue will prompt the reader to imagine himself in the situation of the prince and his friend respectively: ‘Tis easy to bring the Hero’s Case home to our-selves; and see, in the ordinary Circumstances of Life, how Love, Ambition, and the gayer Tribe of Fancys (as well as the gloomy and dark Specters of another sort) prevail over our Mind. ‘Tis easy to observe how they work on us, when we refuse to be before-hand with ’em, and bestow repeated Lessons on the encroaching Sorceresses. On this it is, that our offer’d ADVICE, and Method of SOLILOQUY depends.181

Shaftesbury does not yet refer to this reader response as sympathy, but he coins the famous expression ›bringing the case home to ourselves‹ with which Adam Smith would later describe the workings of the sympathetic imagination.182 What this phrase implies is that, when we take a character’s case to heart, we propose his situation to be our own. Should the prince’s ambition strike a sympathetic chord, this allows us to scrutinise such passion in ourselves. We may also take the perspective of his partner in dialogue, realising the need to talk reason to ourselves in soliloquy. The friend’s »well-manag’d Interrogatory of what next?«183 is the proper method with which to inquire into our affections and discern whether they are in conformity with

_____________ 177 178 179 180 181 182 183

Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 82. Ibid., 62. Ibid., 256. Ibid. Ibid., 258. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, 84–85. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 256.

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reason or (which comes down to the same) a friendly sympathy with mankind.184 Authors who stir not only the partial affections of their readers but move them in a way that makes them adopt different perspectives on life and its passions will at length teach them »the Turns of Humour and Passion, the Variety of Manners, the Justness of Characters, and TRUTH of Things«.185 Through imaginations of a propositional kind, readers are made to perform that self-division which is necessary for the philosophical practice of soliloquy. Finally, in his masterpiece essay »The Moralists«, Shaftesbury refers to sympathetic imagination avant la lettre also in its creative function, namely where he specifies what, morally speaking, it can and cannot do.186 Above all, he raises the question whether it is able to furnish us with constant virtue, i.e. an uninterrupted sympathy with mankind. Since the answer he gives is not merely stated but dramatised in the work, a closer look at the text is necessary. The designation of genre provided in the essay’s subtitle, »A Philosophical Rhapsody«, suggests that it is a blend of the ancient literary genres rhapsodic epic and dialectic dialogue. Though it does indeed delight, move and instruct as such a medley would, the work is in actual fact an epistolary fiction interrupted by colloquies of various kinds. Hence the narrative structure is not a little complex. Philocles introduces himself as the author of a letter to his friend Palemon which records their dialogue of the proceeding day and, furthermore, relates the conversations between Philocles and Theocles, as well as a handful of other people, on two days in an unspecified recent past. The epistolary frame that Shaftesbury employs inverts chronological order, the narrative takes off where the story ends. As one commentator has suggested, this structure renders the dialectic dialogue, in which the largest part of the work consists, more attractive to the eighteenth-century reader.187 Shaftesbury makes philosophy appealing by embedding it in fictional narrative. However, as Michael Prince convincingly argued, the Earl assigns less epistemological authority to the epistolary narrative than to the dialectic dialogue.188 The former is a subjective account by Philocles that prefaces important motifs and prepares the reader’s mind for what is to come, whereas the latter more immediately inspires contemplation and insight. Prose fiction merely prepares the ground for philosophy. What I wish to emphasise is that this combination of genre, which occasions a complex proleptic structure, is crucial because it exactly corresponds to the moral epistemology of Shaftesbury. As shown earlier, the author believes that moral goodness is a seedlike principle or prolepsis which is connatural to man. The reality of this universal standard must be felt before it can be understood and, what is more, inter_____________ 184 As pointed out above, the most reasonable feelings are those through which the individual sympathises with his entire species. 185 Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 258. 186 My references are to the 1711 text of the essay included in Characteristicks rather than the less elaborate 1704 version titled »The Sociable Enthusiast«. 187 Cf. Prince (1996), 66. 188 Ibid., 70.

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nalised. Shaftesbury forms the narrative structure of »The Moralists« according to these suppositions and so the work is conceived as a school of virtue for the reader. Thus it is vitally important that Philocles is a ›semi-convert‹ to the philosophy of Theocles when he first talks to Palemon. The fact that he has roughly understood but not yet internalised the Platonist’s tenets allows Shaftesbury to allude indeterminately to key ideas at the outset of the work. He ›sows the seeds‹ for the reader in that he calls attention to certain preconceptions which, supposedly, are lodged already in human nature. The novice Philocles briefly touches upon ideas which are thereafter given a poetic countenance in the rhapsodies of Theocles. These operate on the affections of both Philocles and us readers. Following the train of impressions and ideas thus suggested, we are supposed to partake in Theocles’ enthusiasm. In the next place, the dialogues between the two, as well as their conversations with a handful of guests over dinner, appeal to our reason in that they approach truth in a dialectical manner. Last but not least, in the narrative that frames the action, Philocles the narrator visibly enters into a self-relation as he records all that has passed. In his writing, he relates back to his feelings or thoughts and thereby performs a selfdividing soliloquy in front his readers, internalising his sound convictions. Readers are no doubt expected to follow his example. The philosopheme of sympathy or sympathetic imagination, among others, develops and unfolds throughout these stages. At the beginning of his narrative, Philocles recalls how he and Palemon were riding in a carriage in polite company, when his friend suddenly turned to the serious and very ungallant subject of philosophy. The objective of their ensuing conversation was »to understand the Manners and Constitutions of Men in common«, for which purpose they wished to ascertain how man is in himself, i.e. »search his Pedegree in Nature«.189 In Palemon’s philosophical rant recited by Philocles, the self-declared rationalist is certain that in the design of mankind, nature proves imperfect, which is evident from the fact that man is »ill to himself, and Cause of Ill to all.«190 However, in spite of this severe criticism of his fellow men, Palemon insists that he is not a complete misanthropist, but rich in natural affection and sympathy: CAN you then, O PHILOCLES, (said you in a high strain, and with a moving air of Passion) »Can you believe me of that Character? Or can you think it of me in earnest, that being MAN, and conscious of my Nature, I shou’d have yet so little Humanity, as not to feel the Affections of a Man? Or feeling what is natural towards my Kind, that I shou’d hold their Interest light, and be indifferently affected with what affects or seriously concerns them? […]«191

Palemon is thus naturally disposed to sympathise with and »befriend Mankind«,192 yet he cannot overcome his aversion towards corrupt humanity. He is appalled at the polite company riding with him in his carriage and laments that his fellows, who are _____________ 189 190 191 192

Shaftesbury, »The Moralists«, 24. Ibid., 36. Ibid., 42. Ibid.

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so skilful in art, have departed from their good nature. Man only among all living beings acts artificially and unreasonable, thereby disconfirming what would otherwise appear as a law-governed cosmos in which sympathy reigns supreme.193 The sceptic Philocles, after raising a series of unavailing objections, is suddenly carried away by philosophical enthusiasm. Much in the vein of the ›sociable enthusiast‹ Theocles, he proclaims that moral evil is no metaphysical evil: what appears to be the cause of discord in the society of men is at last, in the higher relation of things, conducive to the preservation of the system; somewhat like the perishing of insects nourishes birds, which in turn are subjected to man. Ultimately, the ranks of the cosmos are interdependent, i.e. in sympathy, and so »a Universal Concord is establish’d.«194 Apparently, the self-declared Pyrrhonist has developed a strong leaning towards philosophical realism. Palemon is eager to learn more about this philosophy and entreats his friend to recount the teachings of Theocles in a letter, which Philocles does in the second and third part of the work. It is here that Shaftesbury explains (as well as shows) how sympathy with mankind can be so complete as to allow us to have a friendly regard even for the greatest wrongdoers. The dialogue between Theocles and his disciple embarks on the question whether all happiness is fleeting. Having established that eudaimonia consists in the possession of a »Good which is regular or constant«195 and can be enjoyed always, Theocles attempts to show Philocles something of this good in his own self: Never did any Soul do good, but it came readier to do the same again, with more Enjoyment. Never was Love, or Gratitude, Bounty practis’d but with increasing Joy, which made the Practiser still more in love with the fair Act. Answer me, PHILOCLES, you who are such a Judg of Beauty, and have so good a Taste of Pleasure; Is there any thing you admire, so fair as Friendship? or any thing so charming as a generous Action? What wou’d it be therefore, if all Life were in reality but one continu’d Friendship, and cou’d be made one such intire Act? Here surely wou’d be that fix’d and constant GOOD you sought.196

Partial sympathies cannot afford constant good, they eventually dissolve and render the individual miserable. This however is not the case with friendship, which is nothing less than sympathy in virtue. If one person acts upon his natural affection and is generous towards others, this gives rise to a joy or liking in himself as well as any onlooker. Such moral pleasure never disappoints or wearies as it ever accompanies virtue. When this moral feeling is mutual between two people, they are joined as friends, sympathising with each other’s virtuous disposition. Thus considered, friendship is a regular joy and a constant good. This Philocles is ready to allow, but how a man can spend all his life as a friend and be friendly to all, he cannot apprehend. Theocles replies by raising the question whether »particular Friendship can _____________ 193 Compare Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IX, 9, where the Stoic emphasises that man is the only animal that can act contrary to its proper nature, which nonetheless will at last prevail in a cosmos characterised by sympathy. 194 Shaftesbury, »The Moralists«, 66. 195 Ibid., 80. 196 Ibid., 100.

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well subsist without such an enlarg’d Affection«197 towards the whole of humanity, for if friendship is based on mutual virtue, it requires an impartial rather than a partial regard for the good of our fellows. Still Philocles cannot conceive how a sympathy with the abstract idea of mankind can be maintained. He finds that since a »sensible material Image« of the other party is wanting, he can only »love the Individual, but not the Species«.198 Mankind is a remote philosophical object which he knows not how to befriend. Theocles now draws attention to the fact that Philocles and Palemon knew themselves from letters long before they met in person. Their friendly sympathy, it seems, owes nothing to sensation and all to the fancy. Reading the other’s letters, they befriended one another in the same manner they would sympathise with a fictional character, by means of their imagination. Lacking sensible impressions, they needed to form an image of their opposite.199 Could this be a way of befriending one’s species? Philocles answers that sympathetic imagination, even when it is as vast and creative as that of the poet who thus conceives of his characters, will not suffice to render us friends of mankind: For tho a Poet may possibly work up such a single Action, so as to hold a Play out; I can conceive but very faintly how this high Strain of Friendship can be so manag’d as to fill a Life.200

That a poet can momentarily feel into a variety of characters Philocles is ready to allow, but he remains sceptical that these sympathetic imaginations can amount to a true and constant sympathy with mankind as a whole. Unlike a true friend, an image formed in the subjective mind is not capable of a sympathetic return, he asserts.201 Theocles eventually agrees that picturing the whole of mankind (let alone that of the cosmos), for the sake of making it an object of sympathy, is impossible: »weary’d Imagination spends it-self in vain«.202 If we resort to our imagination alone, whether sensory, propositional or creative, we will fall short of true philanthropy. Fancy can go no further, but noetic reason can. Theocles argues in a Platonic manner that the reality of any one thing consists in its form.203 Thus, if Philocles were able to realise the form of mankind, he would be able to truly sympathise with it.204 Unlike abstraction, i.e. the conception of a general notion from empirical evidence, _____________ 197 Ibid. 198 Ibid., 106. 199 Cf. ibid.: »For in the same manner as when I first began to love PALEMON, I was forc’d to form a kind of material Object, and had always such a certain Image of him, ready-drawn, in my Mind, whenever I thought of him; so I must endeavour to order it in the Case before us: if possibly by your help I can raise any such Image, or Specter, as may represent this odd Being you wou’d have me love.« 200 Ibid., 100. 201 Cf. ibid., 108. 202 Ibid., 248. 203 Cf. ibid., 333: »That the Beautiful, the Fair, the Comely, were never in the Matter, […] but in the Form or forming Power.« 204 The ensuing Platonic argument I do not follow in detail. My brief summary will suffice to point out its contrast with later sentimentalist philosophies.

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such noesis would allow the as of yet sceptic philosopher to grasp humanity as one entire and feeling body, a body that is capable of mutually sympathising with him as a friend. Ultimately, Theocles suggests, the organism of mankind, like that of the tree or the human corpus, differs from an image accidentally made by our fancy, such as a figure in the clouds or a statue of marble, because it is a whole characterised by »a Sympathizing of Parts«,205 all of which in unity support and propagate its form.206 The reality of the tree or the society of man is evidenced by the concurrence of fibres and entire human beings, respectively. »By virtue of this, our Tree is a real Tree«,207 a man is a true man, and mankind is really mankind. When thus recognised as a sympathising body and realised as a form, humanity surfaces as the ultimate object as well as the original subject of sympathy. Not as an image, but as a reality, mankind sympathises with the virtuous. The man of virtue in his turn befriends his species by realising it, not through sympathetic imagination. In other words, he comes to know the answer to the ontologically dimensioned question »To sympathize, what is it?«

_____________ 205 Shaftesbury, »The Moralists«, 252. Compare ibid., 254. 206 Ibid., 252: »Wherever there was such a plain Concurrence in one common End, and to the Support, Nourishment, and Propagation of so fair a Form; we cou’d not be mistaken in saying there was a peculiar Nature belonging to this Form, and common to it with others of the same kind.« 207 Ibid.

CHAPTER 3: SYSTEMS OF SYMPATHY

The Rise of the Sympathetic Imagination in Scottish Empiricism During the Scottish Enlightenment, the heyday of epistemology, the term imagination was used to describe any or all activities of the human mind. Most broadly, it could signify the formation and/or association of impressions and ideas, the constitutive elements of all mental content. More specifically, the imagining faculty was discussed in its sensory, propositional, and creative functions.1 The generation of quasisensations through mental imagery, the adoption of a future or alternative point of view distinct from that of present experience or, finally, the creation of possible worlds in idea were all in their turn referred to as imaginings. Thus, when the Scottish empiricists explored the epistemological dimension of sympathy, they had to discern how fellow-feeling relates to the imagination in its basic as well as its more complex functions. In so doing, they raised the question whether some species of imagination-based sympathy can determine what is morally right or wrong. In other words, the sympathetic imagination was in the making. The genesis of this concept is closely tied to the transformative development of Moral Sentimentalism and so its history of origin must begin with the spiritual father of this philosophical movement: Francis Hutcheson. While Characteristicks was the work of a solitary reasoner who soliloquised about ancient knowledge of sumpatheia, the first truly sentimentalist theory of ethics appears to have emerged from social intercourse. Its author Hutcheson was part of an Anglo-Irish circle that met at Brackenstown House, the stately home of the Molesworth family. Six and a half miles from the city of Dublin, the elderly Robert Molesworth entertained a set of progressively minded Irishmen whom he made familiar with the thought of his late intimate friend, the third Earl of Shaftesbury. Molesworth, who never published any philosophica himself, is said to have established a ›Greek‹ school of philosophy in Ireland.2 Among its followers were figures as illustrious as Jonathan Swift or Edward Synge and, not least, the Ulster-born Francis Hutcheson, who would become the ›father‹ both of Moral Sentimentalism and the Scottish Enlightenment as a whole. The acknowledgements in his first major work titled An Inquiry into the Original of Our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue3 indicate that the Molesworth circle was a formative influ_____________ 1 2

3

Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 39n154, and my discussion below. Cf. Scott (1900), 28. Biographical information concerning Francis Hutcheson is taken from this seminal source. For Hutcheson’s connection to literary and philosophical circles in Dublin in the 1720s, cf. the exhaustive study by Brown (2002). This volume published in 1725, thenceforth cited as Inquiry, comprises two treatises, namely »An Inquiry Concerning Beauty, Order, &c.« and »An Inquiry Concerning the Original of our Ideas of Virtue or Moral Good«. Hutcheson’s second book which saw the light of day in 1728, An Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections, with Illustrations on the Moral Sense, is likewise subdivided, as the title suggests. My interpretation will concentrate on these four pivotal treatises which Hutcheson penned during his Dublin years.

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ence on the young Hutcheson whose studies at Glasgow University had been of a more conservative slant.4 Michael Brown’s seminal book has convincingly shown that not only the philosophical tenets of Characteristicks, as advocated by Molesworth, but also the critical minds Hutcheson met with at Brackenstown House have left their mark on his writing.5 Although my focus will be on the Scottish network of intellectuals ›fathered‹ by Hutcheson, it is worth noting that already this Irishman’s earliest philosophical endeavours were to some extent the product of learned intercourse. His mode of philosophising is thus diametrically opposed to Lord Shaftesbury’s and so, unsurprisingly, his perspective on sympathy is radically different. Rather than labouring in private recess, soliloquising over the writings of ancient authors, Hutcheson socialised with the people of his age because he was fully convinced that virtue emanates from human commerce. To explore the moral implications of sympathy, he sought to engage in and observe the social practices of his fellows. Scottish empiricism as spearheaded by Hutcheson marks a watershed in the history of sympathy. It is characterised by that shift from the vertical to the horizontal plane which is commonly associated with the empiricist ›new way of ideas‹.6 Lord Shaftesbury, despite his focus on philosophy as a way of life, still adhered to the concept of ›vertical realism‹. At the turn of the eighteenth century, he yet asserted that reality, and hence that veritable sympathy which interconnects mankind, is grounded in the eternal and immutable order of universal nature, and can thus be experienced ›vertically‹ in certain internal affections. As pointed out above, Shaftesbury argued that a moral sensation is in effect a vertical sympathy with the body of mankind rather than a horizontal co-affection with one or more fellow human beings. In contrast, Hutcheson as well as his younger contemporary David Hume assumed a flat ›horizontal‹ reality to which the subjective faculties of external and internal perception have an immediate access. Horizontal relations were now in the limelight and so the epistemological question how a person feels with another super_____________ 4

5

6

In his Inquiry, 10–12, Hutcheson made acknowledgements to Molesworth and Synge for their inspirations and support. As pointed out by Moore (1990), 43–44, the college curriculum at Glasgow University, where Hutcheson was educated, had a rather conservative leaning. Ancient treatises on logic, metaphysics, moral and natural philosophy were dictated to students along with only a few references to the more recent authors John Locke, Nicolas Malebranche and Samuel Pufendorf. For instance, Brown (2002), 44, argues that »Molesworth […] provided Hutcheson, as he acknowledged, with a learned reader with whom to develop and clarify his ideas«. More especially, he claims that the philosopher agreed with Molesworth in the domain of politics as both leaned towards Whiggism, cf. ibid., 36. Brown also speculates that the latter’s sophisticated garden designs at Brackenstown may have inspired Hutcheson when writing the first of his famous four treatises which is dedicated to aesthetics. For an account of how Edward Synge’s interpretation of the religious constitution of Ireland influenced Hutcheson’s ethics, which indeed appropriates a number of theological motifs, cf. ibid., 58–64. This is a commonplace. For instance, Erich Auerbach’s seminal study on the changing interpretations of reality in literary representation claims that early modernity witnessed the gradual prioritisation of the mundane and particular over the cosmic and universal, a shift which he refers to as one from the vertical to the horizontal dimension of things. Cf. Auerbach (1959), esp. 75, 295.

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seded the ontologically dimensioned question »To sympathize, what is it?«. As a result, sympathy was no longer regarded as a cord that structures the tissue of the world and instead became a key concept of intersubjectivity. The view that Hutcheson’s concept of co-affectability is located at a turning point in this trajectory – pursuing some crucial innovations, yet sometimes still relying on aspects of older philosophies – has not yet received much academic attention. Indeed, scholars have struggled to come to terms with the consequent ambiguity of the notion of sympathy in the Enlightenment philosopher’s work. With the exception of an article by Luigi Turco, which discusses how Hutcheson responds to contemporary hedonist interpretations of fellow-feeling,7 the philosopher’s understanding of sympathy has been explored only in its relation to that of Hume in order to refute or defend the common view that the former author had a formative influence on the latter.8 James Moore has gone as far as to assert that the concept of co-affectability is entirely irrelevant to Hutcheson’s systematics: »Hutcheson found no place for sympathy in his system«.9 This claim has been cast into doubt by David Fate Norton in a more recent article, in which he observed that »Hutcheson has positive things to say about sympathy«.10 Yet what exactly the moral sense philosopher understood by this term remains to be explored. In the following, I will show that Hutcheson elaborated on an associationist and semiotic account of sympathy, thus foregrounding the role of imagination (in the wider sense) in occurrences of fellow-feeling.11 Although I will further extend my view to David Hume, I will stay clear of the aforementioned debate about whether Hutcheson can justly be said to anticipate this philosopher’s ethical theory. My purpose is not to ascertain which one of them deserves the greater credit and argue for or against the traditional claim that Hume was »[t]he most important philosopher ever to write in English«.12 Rather, building on the observation that sympathy is a theme both authors share, this chapter elaborates on the different _____________ 7 8

9 10 11

12

Cf. Turco (1999) and my discussion of his article below. The seminal monograph by Kemp Smith (1941), 12–13, argues that Hume was strongly indebted to Hutcheson and only more radical in that he drew consequences his precursor shied away from. By contrast, Gill (1996) pointed out that Hutcheson’s theological view of human nature strongly distinguishes him from Hume. Moore (1995) asserted that what differentiates the two is above all the significance they accredit to sympathy. More recently, Norton (2005), esp. 254–56, claimed that while Hume and Hutcheson could not agree on the role of sympathy in ethics, their epistemologies are nonetheless strikingly similar. For an account of this controversy and a sound discussion of the arguments on either side, which concludes that Norton’s view is correct, cf. Turco (2007). Rather than attempting to decide this question, I only embrace the two most obvious truths: firstly, both philosophers proceed upon an empiricist premise and thus give an associationist as well as semiotic explanation of human sympathising; secondly, Hume more radically departs from older traditions of sympathy than Hutcheson does. Moore (1995), 53. Norton (2005), 255. In this regard, Hutcheson refers to the imagination more broadly as the associating power of the mind. He did not yet conceive of the sympathetic imagination proper, i.e. that specific propositional fancy which gives rise to sympathy. Morris (2009), n. p.

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ways in which they transform the ancient tenets that were still advocated by Shaftesbury. In the first half of this chapter, I will show how, in an argument reminiscent of Characteristicks, Hutcheson asserted the existence of an internal sense indicating moral good and evil which points to a profound sympathetic interconnection of the species. However, Hutcheson is not therefore a mere epigone of Shaftesbury. As he increasingly focussed on ›horizontal‹ relations, he gave an empiricist explanation of sympathy with which he explored the more complex human passions in some detail, thus developing a doctrine of human affections that hinges on sympathy. Nonetheless, when forced to defend his Inquiry against a number of critics, Hutcheson ventured beyond empiricism and so in An Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections, with Illustrations on the Moral Sense,13 he postulated that the general sympathy of the species, because it originates in the good will of the deity, is the cause of all benevolent feeling among mankind. Due to this theological view of human nature, Hutcheson established a close systematic connection between the terms sympathy and benevolence. This acknowledgement may help to explain their frequent proximity in the eighteenth century. The second part of this chapter is dedicated to David Hume’s alternative system of sympathy, which yet more radically departs from ancient traditions. Certainly, Hume was more of an isolated scholar than Hutcheson when he wrote his first major work between 1734 and 1737. He had settled in the small French town La Flèche to pursue his studies of Nicolas Malebranche, René Descartes and others.14 His reading when staying on the Continent was thus much different from Shaftesbury’s, who during his Holland retreat preferred to read the ancient philosophers. Hume’s soliloquies do not carry the mark of speculative philosophy, rather they pursue a form of inner empiricism. The author’s perspective on sympathy, accordingly, was less traditionalist. In the second volume of his A Treatise of Human Nature,15 Hume conceives an empiricist theory of the human passions for which sympathy proves constitutive. This is the basis from which, in book three, he develops an ethics centred on the sympathetic imagination, here termed extensive sympathy. The triadic structure of that name, which serves Hume to assert the normativity of morals (even though he effectively eliminates ›vertical‹ reality) has not yet been the object of a close study. Páll Árdal and Philip Mercer, arguing against the common prejudice that Hume is a moral sense philosopher exactly like Hutcheson, have asserted that Humean moral sentiments originate in sympathy-based indirect passions.16 However, they are convinced that, as Mercer put it, »Hume is not consistent about the meaning he puts _____________ 13 14 15 16

Thenceforth cited as Essay. Cf. Mossner (1980), 99–103, esp. 102, and Hume, »My Own Life«, xxviii: »During my retreat in France, first at Reims, but chiefly at La Flèche, in Anjou, I composed my Treatise of Human Nature.« Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature, thenceforth referred to as THN, was published between 1738 and 1740. Cf. Árdal (1966) and Mercer (1995).

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upon ›extensive‹ sympathy«.17 To my mind, the trouble is that these and other previous studies fail to see that this structure is essentially triadic: it is a sympathy that not only carries us beyond our immediate perceptions by way of sensory imagination, but is far-reaching enough to be called extensive rather than limited as it builds on propositions of an intersubjective nature. Put differently, it is based on conjectures how the passion sympathised with affects and is affected by the emotional state of others. This sympathy of an impartial third sentimentally interprets rebounding sympathies. Even the renowned Hume scholar Michael B. Gill seems unaware of this philosopheme, but he did come close. While he recognised that what the Scottish philosopher calls moral sentiments are de facto an impartial sympathy from a privileged point of view, he argued that this perspective is gained by taking recourse to general rules.18 My understanding is that, if we take Hume’s Moral Sentimentalism seriously, we must concede that sympathy can sufficiently distinguish virtue from vice only when it is triadic and thus responds to propositional imaginations of the intersubjective circumstances of passions. In other words, the sympathetic imagination rather than the moral sense is at the systematic centre of the ethical theory developed in Hume’s THN. Indeed, some scholars agree with me that Humean moral sentiments cannot be boiled down to dyadic rebounds of sympathies. Yet rather than acknowledging the triadic nature of extensive sympathy, they have pointed to mentions of an unspecified sense of morality in the final book of THN and elsewhere in Hume’s work.19 Most recently, David Fate Norton has again associated Hume with moral sense positivism.20 It is true that, in his later An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,21 a recasting of book three of THN, Hume omitted the triadic structure termed extensive sympathy. Here, the philosopher only vaguely refers to a so-called moral sense. The fact that Hume later holds on to the innatist ›remnant‹ of a sense of morality, leaving it up to Adam Smith to further elaborate on the sympathetic imagination, may have a specific reason. In the following, I would like to suggest that this is because of his longstanding scepticism towards what he refers to as ›fictions of sympathy‹. As is evident from his poetological statements, the future historiographer Hume was hesitant to place too much significance on sympathies based on propositions of the fancy. A severe critic of sentimental fiction, he feared that sympathetic imaginations could perhaps not be sufficiently grounded in human experience. Sympathies based on mere conjectures, Hume deliberated, might be too fanciful to be empirically true.

_____________ 17 18 19 20

21

Mercer (1995), 458. Cf. Gill (2006), 214–225, esp. 219–221. Cf. Norton (1982), 94–151, Cohon (2008), 101–107. Cf. Norton (2009b), esp. 290: »He [Hume, my note] simply takes it to be a fact of our nature (a fact illustrated by our moral practice) that our moral sense is aroused by certain features or actions of humans«. Thenceforth cited as EPM.

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»What’s Hecuba to us, or we to Hecuba?« Sympathy in Francis Hutcheson’s Empiricist Perspective Although the term sympathy appears only once in Hutcheson’s seminal Inquiry, the book with which he established himself as a writer, the notion of co-affectability is apparent in many more places throughout the work. The first of its two treatises attempts to prove the existence of an innate sense of beauty, the operations of which are uniform among mankind and pay no respect to considerations of convenience or utility. The second treatise, by analogy, advocates an ethics hinging on the notion of an innate moral sense. Hutcheson here explicitly placed himself in the tradition of Shaftesbury who conceived of the reflected internal sense of morality as a sympathy with the good or ill felt by the body of mankind.22 Hutcheson affirmed this tenet, if only superficially. Observing that the human mind is by nature furnished with a determination to approve disinterested affections and deplore their contraries, he embraced the assumption that an invisible tie interconnects the species. Sympathy as a theme – albeit not necessarily as a term – plays an important role in Hutcheson’s system, simply because it is implicit in the moral sense. Yet although the author claims that »Actions we approve in others, are generally imagin’d to tend to the natural Good of Mankind«,23 he is at pains to account for this enlarged sympathy that is implied in moral sensations: »But whence this secret Chain between each Person and Mankind?«24 As this open question indicates, the perspective on sympathy had changed utterly. In the eyes of Hutcheson, assertions concerning the objective nature of sympathy could no longer be made legitimately. He embraced the philosophical currents of empiricism and subjectivism advocated by Descartes, John Locke and others, thus concluding that any knowledge we can have of sympathy must be derived from (inward) experience. Unlike Shaftesbury and the ancients, Hutcheson does not assume that the human species is part of a sentient cosmos perceptible of pleasures or pains and that, in consequence, its members feel with that whole when they have moral affections. The claim that humanity is interconnected co-sensitively is only an inference from the fact that we are sensible of ethical feelings. The sole focus is on what passes in the subjective mind when we sympathise or have moral sensations. According to Hutcheson then, sympathy is less a manifestation of cosmic coherence than a phenomenon that manifests itself in the human psyche. This new perspective constitutes a radical caesura in the history of sympathy. Since Hutcheson’s treatises are one-sidedly concerned with the narrow realm of intramental matters, many ancient tenets attached to this concept no longer come into view. The claim made on the original title page of his Inquiry that in this work »the Ideas of Moral Good and Evil are establish’d, according to the Sentiments of _____________ 22 23 24

Hutcheson styles his first book as a defence of Shaftesbury’s Characteristicks against egoist adversaries, cf. Inquiry, 9–10. Ibid., 91. Ibid.

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the Antient Moralists«25 is certainly a bit too bold. It does make sense that, in the same place, the author cites a passage from Cicero’s On Duties which touches on the question of ethical feeling. Both the Inquiry and the Ciceronian work indeed address this theme.26 Yet Hutcheson transforms the ancient tenet by hybridising it with Shaftesbury’s reflections on the moral sense. Most crucially, however, his account differs from that of Cicero and his disciples, including Shaftesbury, in that it casts into doubt the inert ›reasonableness‹ of sympathy. As a sentimentalist, Hutcheson asserts that morality is at bottom a question of feeling, and nothing but feeling. Human sympathising no longer qualifies as an expression of the logos of nature, rather it is an »Instinct, or a Determination previous to Reason«, which, unlike self-love, is directed not at private happiness but »toward the Publick«.27 All that our reasoning faculty can do in matters of morality is to contrive constitutions and laws to meet the requirements of that natural sympathy with the welfare of the human race.28 Thus in the eyes of the empiricist philosopher, the »moral Sense has no relation to innate Ideas«,29 it cannot access connatural notions, which with Locke are declared nonexistent.30 As a result, virtue is defined not as a ›vertical‹ reality but as the »Idea of some Quality apprehended in Actions, which procures Approbation, and Love«,31 i.e. as a simple idea that is derived from sense perception and gives rise to moral pleasure. By thus embracing Lockean epistemology, Hutcheson turns away from the

_____________ 25 26

27 28 29 30

31

Ibid., 199. The question whether Hutcheson read Cicero as a Stoic and thus regarded himself indebted to Stoicism has been the cause of some controversy. While Moore (1995), 26, argued that the empiricist philosopher »took Cicero to have been a Stoic«, Norton (2005), 216–221, claimed that Hutcheson was largely averse to Stoicism. As I have suggested earlier, the theme of ethical feeling is most prominent in the ancient theories of friendship by Aristotle and Cicero, yet a post-reflective delight in virtue is also known to the Stoics, cf. ch. 2 in this book, 31–32, 35n136. For a good interpretation of Hutcheson’s relation to Stoicism, cf. Maurer (2010), who showed that while in the main, the ›father‹ of the Scottish Enlightenment appropriated the Stoic doctrine of affections (which is recorded in Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations) in the first treatise of the Essay, he utterly rewrote their notion of virtue in the second. Since Hutcheson reduced virtue to benevolence, i.e. the desire to see others happy, he disregarded the aspect of Stoic self-autonomy. Clearly, being an external rather than an internal good, the happiness of our fellows is beyond our power and thus it cannot qualify as an object of Stoic virtue. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 133. Cf. ibid., 133–134. Put differently, what Hutcheson understands by reason is explicatory understanding. Ibid., 9. As the invaluable study by Daniel Carey (2006), 157, has pointed out, the ›father‹ of the Scottish Enlightenment sides with Locke rather than Shaftesbury when it comes to epistemology: »Hutcheson set out his conception of a moral sense along lines prepared by Locke, in terms of both its ontological status and its epistemological role.« Carey further argued that the moral sense, which Shaftesbury understands as a disposition to access innate notions, becomes a faculty analogous to the external senses in Hutcheson, cf. ibid., 163–165. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 85.

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moral realism of Shaftesbury and his ancient predecessors.32 What he holds on to is the supposition that human beings are disinterestedly attached to their fellows and that – epistemologically speaking – this is the source of virtue.33 If we correct our ill opinions and overcome the spirit of faction, this kind feeling extends to all individuals of our species.34 Like Shaftesbury, Hutcheson verifies this claim by observing that every parent bears a disinterested natural affection towards his child. This »Love to the Child makes him affected with his Pleasures or Pains«,35 it gives rise to specific sympathies with the sensations of the infant. From Hutcheson’s subjectivist perspective, a natural affection of benevolence is at the bottom of sympathy, not vice versa.36 He assumes that we will sympathise more readily with those to whom we are benevolently attached. What then is sympathy according to Hutcheson? To gain more exact knowledge of the phenomenon, the Scottish philosopher conducts a series of empirical investigations. Ultimately, he accounts for the genesis of fellow-feeling in the subjective mind – which he refers to as »Compassion«, »Pity« or »Sympathy«37 – by giving a semiotic explanation that anticipates the notorious passage in David Hume’s THN:38 We may here observe how wonderfully the Constitution of human Nature is adapted to move Compassion. Our Misery or Distress immediately appears in our Countenance, if we do not study to prevent it, and propagates some Pain to all Spectators; who from Observation, universally understand the meaning of those dismal Airs. We mechanically send forth Shrieks and Groans upon any surprizing Apprehension of Evil; so that no regard to Decency can sometimes restrain them; This is the Voice of Nature, understood by all Nations, by which all who are present are rous’d to our Assistance, and sometimes our injurious Enemy is made to relent.39

Sympathy, the empiricist Hutcheson claims, depends upon the perception and consequent association of certain external signs. When in a state of passion, and unless he is a master of dissimulation, the person concerned naturally displays certain facial and verbal expressions. Taking for granted that these are uniform among mankind, _____________ 32

33 34 35 36

37 38 39

In the defining formulas which Hutcheson induces from the internal senses of beauty and morality, namely »Uniformity amidst variety« and »the greatest Happiness for the greatest Numbers«, a certain Platonic notion of form is indeed inherent. Nonetheless, Wolfgang Leidhold in his introduction to Hutcheson, Inquiry, xi–xiii, goes too far when he asserts that the empiricist philosopher fully assimilates Shaftesbury’s notion of aesthetic and moral perception. Rather than accessing innate forms or notions, the internal senses of beauty and morality give rise to moral and aesthetic ideas in the first place. Cf. Hutcheson, Inquiry, esp. 103–104. Cf. ibid., 142–143. Ibid., 112. Ontologically speaking, general human sympathy is the source and, ultimately, the consummation of an individual’s natural (or speaking with Hutcheson: benevolent) affection, cf. ch. 2 in this book, 38. Cf. Hutcheson, Inquiry, esp. 160–162, for the author’s synonymous use of »Compassion« and »Pity«. For the only mention of »Sympathy«, cf. ibid., 68. Compare Hume, THN, 2.1.11.3. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 160.

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Hutcheson claims that it is by repeated observation that we comprehend the meaning of a sad grimace or woeful groans. To us onlookers who from experience have come to associate such a countenance or sound with the idea of the corresponding passion, that countenance or sound becomes a referential sign. As we thus come to understand the signs of passion, we are affected sympathetically by our fellows. Hutcheson is sure to point out that this »Voice of Nature« is »understood by all Nations«:40 he emphasises that the language of the body, other than that of speech, is not dependent upon custom. He claims that sympathetic understanding develops in the mind of the individual in earliest childhood, long before conventions make their mark. That young children are often cruel to animals, Hutcheson insists, is no argument against their natural disposition to sympathise. Their seemingly malicious actions are due to »their Ignorance of those signs of Pain«41 which further experience will remove. This shows that sympathy is here considered less as a co-sensitive connection established beforehand – for which contagious yawning is the prime example – and more as a communication of passion which presupposes certain associations. As a result, when Hutcheson explores sympathy’s role in aesthetic as well as moral experience, he pursues the question how these associations align with our original perceptions of beauty and virtue. When instrumental music successfully imitates a human voice agitated by passion, Hutcheson writes, that passion is excited in the musical listener »by a sort of Sympathy«42 and so renders the piece agreeable to him. Originally, it is of course the internal sense of beauty, with which all human beings are furnished, that discerns harmony or discord in music. To explain why, in spite of this, people differ in their musical tastes, Hutcheson investigates how specific associations of ideas may account for this diversity. A song which we first listened to in a state of passion, such as melancholy or joy, may be so connected to this emotional condition as to make our past feelings reoccur when we hear the tune again. After this manner, delight or aversion become attached to things originally pleasant, painful or indifferent to us. Regardless of whether we perceive harmony or dissonancy in a musical piece by way of our sense of beauty, we may be delighted or repulsed due to a specific association. What is more, sympathy may attach itself to such associations and render them even more complex. Should our mind have made out a resemblance between a certain tune and the human voice agitated by one of the human passions, the associative relation thus formed can give rise to a like emotion in our own breast: The human Voice is obviously vary’d by all the stronger Passions; now when our Ear discerns any resemblance between the Air of a Tune […] to the sound of the human Voice in Passion, we shall be touch’d by it in a very sensible manner, and have Melancholy, Joy, Gravity, Thoughtfulness excited in us by a sort of Sympathy or Contagion. The same Connexion is observable between the very Air of a Tune, and the Words ex-

_____________ 40 41 42

Ibid., 161. Ibid., 162. Ibid., 68.

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Systems of Sympathy pressing any Passion which we have heard it fitted to, so that they shall both recur to us together, tho but one of them affects our Senses.43

By way of such associations, we are able to sympathise with feelings that animate the musical performance and, presumably, affected the composer, who expressed them in his composition. As implied by the term contagion, which in this instance is only a metaphorical equivalent of sympathy, such associative operations are independent of the will and do not require a higher form of cognizance.44 Hence sympathy, in this case, signifies a fellow-feeling that comes into effect through the associating power that Hutcheson sometimes calls imagination, using the term in the widest possible sense.45 It is of course not to be confused with sympathetic imagination proper, i.e. sympathy based on the adoption of a future or alternative perspective distinct from that of experience. While the first treatise of Hutcheson’s Inquiry thus touches upon the role of associative sympathy in aesthetic experience, the second explores its relation to virtue. Arguing from the perspective of moral philosophy, the author is now more critical towards associations that give rise to co-affections. We are warned that »Compassion often becomes too strong for […] Reason«46 as is frequently the case when spectators attend executions. To sympathise with the pains of a criminal at the gallows may be detrimental to our understanding of what is lawful and just. In an argument reminiscent of Shaftesbury, Hutcheson claims that partial sympathies of this kind, which give rise to the formation of criminal organisations, political parties and religious sects, are morally good only in an imperfect sense and cannot but fall short of true virtue.47 That some readers enjoy the histories of hearty criminals, Hutcheson thus accredits to an »unreasonable Enthusiasm for some kind of limited Virtue.«48 In sober minds, no substantial fellow-feeling with immoral characters can arise. Only such sympathies will subsist that agree with our moral sense, i.e. an enlarged sympathy with the well-being of the species. A criminal who has harmed the generality of mankind is undeserving of our pity, whatever may be his torments. The existence of this moral sense, which is thus distinguished from co-affections based on partial views and interests, Hutcheson proves empirically by making obser_____________ 43 44

45

46 47 48

Ibid. My emphasis differs from that of Semi (2012), 58–62, esp. 61, who claims that the term sympathy, employed by Hutcheson to describe the effects of music, »rubs shoulders with medicine.« As suggested by the marginal title that is given to the respective paragraph, »Associations Cause of Disagreement«, an occurrence of sympathy in the mind is here considered as the outcome of association. The equivalent contagion, also used by David Hume in his associationist interpretation of sympathy (cf. THN, 3.3.3.5), is only a metaphor that points to the spontaneity and involuntariness of the act. However, this use of the term agrees with the traditional view that the imagination is a middle faculty between sense and reason which can associate our present perceptions to other mental contents, cf. e.g. Aristotle, On the Soul, 428a. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 162. Compare ibid., 142–144, and Shaftesbury, »Sensus Communis«, 78–84. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 144.

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vations on the moral charm of fiction. He argues that we surely cannot have the remotest interest in feigned actions, and yet we feel with fictional characters just the same when they perform virtuous deeds. From this he infers that mankind is furnished with a disinterested sense of morality: »If there is no moral Sense«, he asks, »What’s Hecuba to us, or we to Hecuba?«49 Gesturing towards Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Hutcheson questions whether an actor devoid of moral sensations could melt to tears on the stage over the miseries of the last Trojan queen. The spectators likewise, if their only business was to gain pleasure and serve themselves, would flee all fictional scenes of distress: »I fancy we would not expose our selves to Pain alone, from Misery which we knew to be fictitious.«50 Certainly, if our fellow’s torments were real, our natural affection of benevolence would oblige us spontaneously. Since the action is feigned, however, only a moral pleasure will attract the theatregoer: I doubt, whether any Audience would be pleas’d to see fictitious Scenes of Misery, if they were kept strangers to the moral Qualitys of the Sufferers, or their Characters and Actions.51

Unless it delights with characters and actions that display a tendency to benefit the species, Hutcheson argues, a tragic plot must be disagreeable. He presupposes that the spectator of a tragedy is always perfectly conscious that the action he witnesses is a fiction and that the passions expressed by the actors have feigned causes. Although this does not affect the theatregoer’s sympathy – Hutcheson claims that he feels the sympathetic pains just the same – he will certainly shun such entertainments in the future. A tragedy is attractive only when it portrays virtuous characters because only as such it evokes moral pleasure, only as such it gives rise also to a pleasing sympathy with the welfare of mankind rather than a painful fellow-feeling with the fictional character only.52 In his second major work, An Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections, with Illustrations on the Moral Sense, Hutcheson’s notion of sympathy becomes subject to certain conceptual adjustments. The chief reason for this is that, following its publication in 1725, the Inquiry had come under fierce attack by a range of critics. Most notably, Hutcheson was offered challenging reproof by John Clarke, who looked at the Inquiry both as flawed in terms of psychology and as dangerously impious.53 An insightful article by Luigi Turco suggests that Clarke’s first critique in fact _____________ 49 50 51 52

53

Ibid., 91–92. Ibid., 161. Ibid. Similarly, the command an orator has over the sympathy of his listeners depends on the moral qualities of the passions he seeks to express. All the figures of speech employed, whatever may be their individual beauty, will affect only when they serve the cause of virtue. Cf. ibid., 172–174. Cf. Clarke, The Foundation of Morality, 41–112. The author suggests that the conclusions Hutcheson draws in his Inquiry are not only »wrong put« but, what is more, »have given great Occasion to the Enemies of CHRISTIANITY, to triumph and ridicule it«, cf. ibid., 89, 107. For a good discussion of the moral philosophy of John Clarke of Hull, who was headmaster at Hull’s public grammar school, cf. Tilley (2015), 69, who argued that Clarke was »one of the eighteenth century’s staunchest proponents of psychological egoism«.

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aims at the Hutchesonian concept of sympathy.54 Drawing on Hutcheson’s own associationist account of the phenomenon and the explanation the Scottish empiricist gives for our aversion to tragedies without moral charm, Clarke claims that the reason why we wish to see others happy is that we want to be relieved of the uneasiness their distress produces in ourselves by way of sympathy and, conversely, take delight in their pleasure by the same means.55 Though Turco’s discussion of this controversy is sound, his article all too easily affiliates the term sympathy with that of complacence. As a result, it asserts no more than that some of the adjustments Hutcheson makes to his moral epistemology counter the hedonist claim that our seeming benevolence originates in the selfish pleasures of fellow-feeling.56 What remains to be pointed out is that, in response to Clarke’s criticism, Hutcheson not only develops a more complex empiricist psychology but, going beyond empiricism, postulates that a general sympathising interconnects mankind beforehand and is thus at the bottom of our desire to act for the public good. In other words, Hutcheson allows himself to speculate on the objective nature of sympathy after all. Right at the beginning of the Essay, Hutcheson develops a categorisation of the human senses which relies heavily on the notion of human fellow-feeling. First, there are the five external senses. In the next place, Hutcheson assumes a sense of beauty, which is defined as our determination to be pleased by uniform objects. Thirdly, the public sense is understood as »our determination to be pleased with the Happiness of others, and to be uneasy at their Misery.«57 This public sense, the principle of which is benevolence, is subsequently equated with sympathy: »this Sympathy with others«, the author claims, »is the Effect of the Constitution of our Nature«.58 Here for the first time, the term sympathy gains currency in Hutcheson’s moral philosophy. However, it is defined only as that internal sense which is the object of, fourthly, the moral sense, and not likewise as the moral sense itself. Only in a later edition of the Essay, published after Hume’s groundbreaking THN, the reflected internal sense of morality is also referred to as a »Liking, Approbation, Sympathy«.59 Finally, Hutcheson discerns a sense of honour by which we are pleased with the moral approbation of others expressed towards our own good conduct. Systematically speaking, sympathy is also at the heart of this sense of honour, since only sympathetic communication can make us sensible of the moral sensations of others. With some reason then, one might call this doctrine of affections a ›system of sympathy‹. Turco is right that in his Inquiry, Hutcheson asserts that sympathy is the effect of benevolence, whereas in his Essay he concedes that it is in fact the first cause of all _____________ 54

55 56 57 58 59

Cf. Turco (1999), 82–89. Furthermore, Turco discussed the role of sympathy in Archibald Campbell’s contestation of Hutcheson, which came out the same year that the latter’s Essay was published, cf. ibid., 89–100. Cf. Clarke, The Foundation of Morality, 78–88. Cf. Turco (1999), 79–80. Hutcheson, Essay, 17. Ibid., 23. Ibid., 215.

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benevolent action.60 However, rather than accounting this a regrettable inconsistency in Hutcheson’s philosophy, I wish to emphasise that the Scottish Enlightenment philosopher stands at a crossroads in the history of sympathy and thus adopts two different perspectives. On the one hand, Hutcheson assimilates the traditional conception of co-affectability from Shaftesbury; he thus assumes that the species is interconnected through sympathy. This sympathy surfaces in an internal sense, namely our natural affection of benevolence which, when reflected, gives rise to moral sensations. On the other hand, as an empiricist, he drafts an associationist system of sympathy that has the potential to explain those human passions which require an intersubjective communication of feeling. From an epistemological perspective, it is certainly correct that pre-reflective natural affection antedates associative sympathy. From an ontological perspective, however, a general human sympathising must be accounted the ground of our benevolent instinct. Hutcheson thus embraces two different points of view: in the Inquiry, he pursues an empiricist enterprise, while in the Essay, he feels obligated to make quasi-ontological statements – some but not all of which are reminiscent of Shaftesbury – to fend off his critics. In his second book, he thus praises the »Order of our Nature«, claiming that if all human beings embraced their natural dispositions, »they should thus be like welltuned Instruments, affected with every Stroke or Touch upon any one.«61 With this allusion to sympathetic strings, one of the prime examples for sympathy in the old tradition,62 Hutcheson seems to suggest that, however co-affectability may surface in the subjective mind, it is first of all a natural, physiological force that makes »a Voice heard thro’ all the Earth«.63 Although Hutcheson’s argument apparently borrows from Characteristicks in this instance, one crucial point of contrast remains. When the father of the Scottish Enlightenment replies to Clarke’s second criticism that the Inquiry is a work of impiety, it becomes clear that ultimately, he does not ground human virtue in the logos of nature which finds expression in sympathy (as Shaftesbury had done), but the bene volens of God. Forced to explicate his distinctly religious view of human nature in reply to the provocation of Clarke, Hutcheson determines the relation of divine good will and human fellow-feeling as follows: Our Compassion and friendly Sense of Sorrow, what are they else but the Alarms and Exhortations of a kind impartial Father, to engage his Children to relieve a distressed Brother?64

_____________ 60 61 62

63 64

Cf. Turco (1999), 86: »After he revised his views Hutcheson considered the public sense and moral sense to be the causes of social affections, rather than their effects.« Hutcheson, Essay, 132. For instance, the phenomenon of sympathetic strings is what evidences a sympathy in nature for Sir Kenelm Digby, cf. his A Late Discourse Made in a Solemne Assembly of Nobles and Learned Men at Montpellier in France, 95: »remember, that when two Lutes or two Harps, near one another, both set to the same tune, if you touch the strings of the one, the other consonant Harp will sound at the same time, though no body touch it«. Hutcheson, Essay, 132. Ibid., 119.

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Assuming that the deity is benevolent and thus disinterested towards its creatures, the dissenting minister Hutcheson argues that human sympathy originates in the goodness of God. Its foundation is not the coherence or rationality of nature, but divine love. Hutcheson’s apparent affinity for a theology of benevolence may explain why, for the most part, he prefers this term over sympathy.65 However, he clarifies the close systematic connection of the two concepts. This distinguishes him from Hume’s and Smith’s more radically empiricist accounts, which argue that sympathy has no intrinsic relation to benevolence.66 The specific theological view of human nature conceived by Hutcheson may perhaps account for the familiarity of the notions of sympathy and benevolence throughout the eighteenth century.67 While Hutcheson tries to set his ethics on more sure grounds, he also progresses in his empirical studies of human affections and sympathies, thus countering yet another criticism. Responding to the author’s self-advertisement, Gilbert Burnet the younger questioned Hutcheson’s sentimentalism from a rationalist perspective and a controversy in the London Journal ensued. Burnet argued that matters of morality cannot be trusted to an internal sense, which may be subject to error or deception. Not moral pleasure, but reason alone can recognise the virtue of the character or deed as true, he contended.68 To this Hutcheson objected that »Desires, Affections, Instincts, must be previous to all Exciting Reasons; and a Moral Sense antecedent to all Justifying Reasons.«69 Put differently, he pointed to the motivational ground of both good conduct and moral judgment. A desire to act virtuously must precede all considerations for doing so; similarly, moral sensation must first suggest ideas of virtue to the mind before solid reasonings about morality can take place. Accordingly, the question how virtue is motivated by desires is addressed at greater length in the Essay, namely where Hutcheson elaborates on the divisions of the human affections and passions by revisiting the classical Stoic doctrine from an empiricist perspective.70 He assumes that there are four ›pure‹ or basic affections, namely joy and desire at the apprehension of good, on the one hand, and sorrow and aversion at the apprehension of ill, on the other. When these are mixed with certain violent sensations, the feeling is denominated a passion.71 The passion of love, for instance, is accordingly defined as a desire to see the other person happy, combined _____________ 65

66 67 68 69 70 71

Leidhold (1985), 72–125, shows at length that Hutcheson’s understanding of benevolence is heavily indebted to Christian interpretations of agápē. For an account of how the Church of Ireland minister Edward Synge, the Presbyterian minister John Abernethy and the Anglican Archbishop of Dublin, William King, all of whom associated with Hutcheson in Dublin, influenced the latter’s thought, cf. Brown (2002), 51–73, 74–96, 146–166. Cf. my discussion of Hume below. This conjunction is striking also in Henry Brooke’s novel The Fool of Quality, cf. ch. 5 in this book, 131–132. Cf. Aaron Garrett’s introduction to Hutcheson, Essay, xiii–xiv. Qtd. after ibid., xiv. Cf. ibid., esp. 49. Cf. ibid., 49–51.

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with a vivid moral sensation that strongly approves of the person’s character.72 Thus subsequently, Hutcheson explores how our senses of morality and honour combine with the basic affections to produce various human passions. He begins his deliberations by observing that we frequently form moral ideas by perceiving fictional characters and their actions: When we form the Idea of a morally good Action, or see it represented in the Drama, or read it in Epicks or Romance, we feel a Desire arising of doing the like. This leads most Tempers into an imagined Series of Adventures, in which they are still acting the generous and virtuous Part, like to the Idea they have received. If we have executed any good Design, we feel inward Triumph of Joy: If we are disappointed thro our own Negligence, or have been diverted from it by come selfish View, we shall feel a Sorrow called Remorse.73

Remarkably, for Hutcheson, moral sensations caused by fiction are in no way different from other such sensations. He believes it is of no consequence whether the action is real or fictitious when – through sympathy with its emotional cause – we feel its good or ill tendency with respect to the welfare of mankind. However, in the latter case, Hutcheson can be sure of the veracity of his findings: we can have no selfish interest in the welfare of fictional personages, and this renders our relation to them the ideal subject of empirical examination. When we are the spectator of a play or the reader of a fictional narrative, the idea of virtue suggested to our mind by way of moral sensation produces a concomitant desire to act virtuously in the moral world. Thus, a passion emerges which, when gratified, gives rise to joy, and together these emotions are known as self-esteem or »Self-Approbation«.74 By contrast, when our desire to be virtuous is disappointed, the passion mixes with sorrow to produce remorse. In a similar manner, the idea of honour, which is suggested to us when we sympathetically perceive the moral sensations of others regarding ourselves, will produce a desire to be honourable.75 Upon gratification, a joy arises in the breast that is called pride; when disappointed, however, this desire makes us sensible of shame. By engaging our moral sense or sympathy, respectively, fictions have the power to make us pursue the course of virtue or honour. It is important to note the role and moral significance of the propositional imagination in this instance. Hutcheson remarks that a desire to perform good (or honourable) acts will often give rise to certain fancies in which we imagine ourselves acting such deeds. The imagination then is that force which contrives possible ways to gratify our passion to be virtuous or honourable. Certainly, it is in this that authors of fiction must assist us. Yet their efforts will only be fruitful, Hutcheson points out, if the course of the plot they conceive does not frustrate the moral notions they impart to us. When, in a tragedy, a perfectly virtuous character meets only with misery, both our moral and our public sense are engaged: we approve his good _____________ 72 73 74 75

Cf. ibid., 52. Ibid., 55. Cf. ibid., 55m. Henry Home, Lord Kames elaborates on this observation and speaks of a »sympathetic emotion of virtue« in his Elements of Criticism, I, 48–52. Cf. also ch. 4 in this book, 104–105, 109.

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disposition and sympathise with his sorrow. However, very much against nature, the idea of virtue and that of misery become associated, and so our desire of following the hero’s example is frustrated. To see malicious characters delight in their successes will have a similar effect, here too we conceive what Hutcheson calls a »Suspicion of the real Advantage of Virtue.«76 Accordingly, Hutcheson determines that the best plots in tragedy are those in which »an imperfect good Character, by an evil Action, procures the highest Misery to himself«.77 Such tragedies alone give rise to a sympathy that is not at odds with our moral feeling, while yet an assemblage of diverging passions interests the spectator most strongly. As Hutcheson thus increasingly considers sympathy as a matter of acting and spectating, it comes to bear a dangerous aspect in his eyes. He condemns that to obtain »the Pleasure of observing the Sympathy of others«, some go as far as »to feign Misery […] and to raise in themselves the most dejected Thoughts«.78 Certainly, Hutcheson is not saying (as Smith and Kames would) that we may thus sympathise with passions we imagine our opposite to feel although this is not actually the case. The acting sufferer as well as the spectator, even in such cases of staged distress, really do share in feelings of misery and are thus interconnected by sympathy. However, Hutcheson points to the fact that a passion might not have sufficient cause to lay rightful claim to our sympathy. Later in the century, this would develop into a moral problem: may we be accounted virtuous when we sympathise with a whiner? Although Hutcheson implores his readers to refrain from any such charade, he is at a loss to provide a remedy.79 How to determine sympathy’s propriety and whether the propositional imagination can have any part in this are pivotal questions explored by moral sentimentalists later in the century.

»Fictions of Sympathy« David Hume on the Sympathetic Imagination of the Moral Triad It is only a childish fancy, David Hume asserted in A Treatise of Human Nature, to imagine a universal sympathy interconnecting all things in the cosmos. The longestablished proposition that the universe is united through the co-affection of its parts is an understandable misconception, the Scottish sceptic claimed, which results from »a very remarkable inclination in human nature, to bestow on external objects the same emotions, which it observes in itself«.80 Supposedly, the ancients, when they remarked a sympathising among human beings, projected such fellow-feeling _____________ 76 77 78 79

80

Hutcheson, Essay, 57. Ibid., 60. Ibid., 87. Such a remedy would only be provided by Adam Smith, who held that to imagine ourselves in the situation of the other will tell us whether his passion is proper with respect to its cause, cf. ch. 4 in this book, 87 and passim. Hume, THN, 1.4.3.11.

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upon the entire natural world in an anthropomorphic manner. Hume compares the earliest philosophers writing about sympathy with children who, when they have hurt themselves stumbling upon a stone, beat the inanimate object as if it were a sensible creature capable of intentionally inflicting as well as perceiving pain.81 The suggestion is that the cosmos is no more a sentient organism than the rock that happens to lie in our way. It must be evident to every rigid self-examiner, the author claims, that it is absurd to fancy the stars or heavenly bodies to feel together just as men sympathise with one another. In stark contrast to the philosophical soliloquies of Marcus Aurelius or Shaftesbury – which substantiate the cosmological significance of sumpatheia as they ascertain a constitutive relation between the sympathising self and sympathising nature – Hume’s self-inquiry disproves such »fictions of sympathy«.82 Certainly, to some extent, the Scottish philosopher embraces the Stoic-Socratic tenet that man needs to correct his fancy and understand himself in order to live a good life.83 On this note, he has been labelled a Neo-Hellenistic thinker for whom the end of philosophy is the acquisition of self-knowledge.84 However, as his aversion to classical notions of sympathy shows, no small transformation is at work here. Reason and sensation, which the ancients regarded as a union, had become separate spheres; they were thus no longer understood to be in converse with one another.85 As a result, what Hume considers the acquisition of self-knowledge is more of a selfdissection than a self-converse between different parts of soul. The ancient practice of soliloquy is subjected to the empiricist premise that all knowledge is gained through sensation and so accordingly, Humean self-talk disproves all such notions that have no sure ground in sense experience. Thus reconceived, this longstanding philosophical exercise is turned against the ancients themselves. By means of an introspection which observes the workings of the mind, Hume attempts to discover »the fictions of the antient philosophy«.86 The Stoic-Platonic precept that sumpatheia is a principle of world coherence is refuted on this account. Sympathy would nonetheless play a pivotal role in Humean thought. To explain how it is rewritten when Hume elaborates on this concept in books two and three of THN, I will first briefly highlight his radical innovations in the field of epistemolo_____________ 81 82 83

84 85

86

Cf. ibid. Ibid. Hume indeed retains some aspects of what the Stoics called oikeiosis, i.e. a form of self-appropriation in which we embrace our natural impulses. He believes mankind to be subject to certain original instincts, among them self-love, an »appetite« finding expression in »natural movements« (THN, 3.2.1.10), to which is joined a »natural appetite betwixt the sexes« giving rise to human society, followed by the »natural affection« (THN, 3.2.2.4) of parents for their offspring. The Scottish sceptic thus gives a naturalistic explanation of human sociability. Cf. Penelhum (2009). Douglas den Uyl, comparing Shaftesbury with the moral sentimentalist Smith, pointed out to me that such categorical »separation of reason and affection is an artificial one foreign to classical moral theory, however common to modern philosophy«, cf. Barton/Klaudies/Micklich (2018), 6n40. Hume, THN, 1.4.3.1.

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gy.87 In the first volume of his magnum opus, the author develops a theory of cognition based on the premise that philosophy as well as any other science must yield to the authority of human perception.88 By perception, Hume means the emergence of impressions and ideas, the first of which are accredited the privilege of primogeniture. An impression is the phantasma or inward image that arises from sensory or affective sensation and must not be confused with aísthēsis, the outward appeal to the senses.89 Proceeding upon the premise that all ideas are derived from impressions, the author claims that the former differ from the latter only in force or vivacity. Ideas are the mere copies of impressions which they thus exactly represent, they are »the faint images of these in thinking and reasoning«.90 Put differently, ideas are images of images, the original of which – such as the material reality of an object – the human mind is unable to apprehend. Ultimately, the sensualist supposition that anything but perception »is beyond the reach of human understanding«91 reduces the exterior world to imaginations of the subjective mind.92 Since the focus is now on the perceiving subject, not universal but human nature is the standard by which the self-examiner Hume judges of philosophical propositions, including the tenets of the ancients. Hum(e)an nature is no longer reliant on any cosmological or divine ground, rather it is self-positing, i.e. it consists in and for itself. Mankind’s embeddedness within the sympathetic unity of the world as advocated by Shaftesbury thus falls outside Hume’s perspective. While the endeavour of Characteristicks was to re-affirm the normativity of cosmic nature, the enterprise of THN is to establish a comprehensive sensualist epistemology which overturns philosophical realism. Thus, to look inward and gain knowledge of self means no more than to understand the way in which perceptions occur or mix in the mind. When conceived in sensualist terms, selfhood can no longer be said to consist in identity, the chief characteristic of which is that all parts of the self, being interconnected by sympathy, conspire to one common end. In his chapter »Of personal identity«, Hume expectably doubts the existence of »a sympathy of parts to their common end« that constitute the self which would imply a »reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their [the parts’, my note] actions and operations.«93 To disprove this traditional concept of _____________ 87 88 89 90

91 92

93

The following paragraph is indebted to David Fate Norton’s (2009a) introduction to Hume. Cf. Hume’s »Introduction« to THN, 9–10. Plato makes this differentiation to distinguish between the active and passive side of perceptions, cf. Theaetetus, 151e–152c. Hume, THN, 1.1.1.1. Perceptions are further differentiated as being either of sensation or reflection, i.e. they may be formed from an appeal to the external senses or an internal emotion. Also, both may be simple or complex, i.e. compounded of simples, cf. ibid., 1.1.1.2. Ibid., 1.2.5.26. The imagination is the pivot of Hume’s epistemology. Salmon (1929), 337, called the imagination the »supreme Humeian faculty«, a claim with which scholars generally agree. Detailed accounts of Hume’s theory of imagination are provided by Streminger (1980) and Dorsch (2016). For the developments leading up to this ›nobilitation‹ of the imagining faculty, cf. Schulte-Sasse (2010), esp. 90–93. Hume, THN, 1.4.6.12.

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selfhood, the Scottish sceptic draws on his argument concerning causation: the idea of necessary connection originates in a feeling of determination to pass from one object to its usual attendant and presupposes the observation of resemblance in a series of instances. Causation, according to Hume, is the customary association of ideas and thus a mental relation only. It may or may not correspond to real connections between causes and effects; of this the mind must ever remain ignorant.94 Whether there is a self composed of parts that intimately cooperate will ever be unknown to us. Rather than being self-same by virtue of sympathy which interconnects its parts, the Humean self is contingent and in perpetual flux, being nothing but a bundle of perceptions: When I turn my reflection on myself, I never can perceive this self without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing but the perceptions. ’Tis the composition of these, therefore, which forms the self.95

In truth, the Humean philosophical exercises are scarcely neo-Hellenistic as they follow the newly conceived method of inner empiricism. It is after this new manner of soliloquy that Hume rules out the ›old‹ tradition of sympathy which was prevalent up to the age of Shaftesbury. Similar to Hutcheson in his Inquiry, Hume in the second volume of THN establishes sympathy as a mere concept of function that allows him to provide a theory of the passions. Human sympathising, though it of course responds to certain external sensations, is here again conceived as an act of the subjective96 mind or imagination. As Hume himself concedes, he often employs this term in a very broad sense to signify that power which conducts all activities of the mind.97 Imagination is that which »has the command over all its ideas, and can join, and mix, and vary them in all the ways possible.«98 Thus, the imagination does not merely form the impressions or images in which all mental content originates, it also has the ability to associate or dissociate the ideas copied from them and, crucially, can convert ideas back into impressions. Such a conversion conducted by the subjective mind is what sympathy properly consists in according to Hume: When any affection is infus’d by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion, as any original affection. However instantaneous this change of the idea into an impression may

_____________ 94 95 96

97

98

Cf. ibid., 1.3.14. Ibid., »Appendix«, 15. Hume’s account of sympathy is subjectivist, yet this does not make his an egoist moral theory. I agree with Árdal (1966), 79, who asserted that since sympathy produces rather than proceeds from pleasure, this proves mankind to be furnished with a disposition to feel disinterestedly. Admittedly, the term imagination can have very different meanings throughout the work. Though Hume frequently employs it in this very broad sense, he sometimes narrows the term down to oppose it to memory or reason, as he himself explains, cf. THN, 1.3.9.19n22. Ibid., 1.3.7.7.

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As a result, sympathy boils down to a principle of communication. Much like Hutcheson, Hume explains the act of sympathising as a form of semiotic response to certain signs which convey an affection.100 The person concerned has an impression, for instance a feeling of joy, and consequently displays certain external marks that express it such as bright smiles or glowing eyes. By sensibly perceiving these, the mind of a spectator forms an idea of the other’s affection which it then converts into an impression, i.e. fellow-feeling. This process presupposes that the spectator has made somewhat similar experiences because only what »is related to ourselves« will have sufficient »vivacity of conception«101 so as to effect a conversion of the idea into an impression. Unless it can be associated with ideas of the memory, the conception of the other’s passion lacks the liveliness to make the bystander sympathise. Basic human passions such as joy or sorrow however are known to any spectator, since »nature has preserv’d a great resemblance among all human creatures«.102 Hume concedes that men are generally inclined to feel with one another, but their fellow-feeling, he insists, is always in idea.103 Though imagination in the widest possible sense is what such Humean sympathy is based on, sympathetic imagination proper, which presupposes certain propositions or projections, is quite another matter. Anticipating this latter concept most prominently associated with Adam Smith, Hume further conceives of a remarkable philosophical structure called extensive sympathy: by imagining a triadic relation of fellow-feeling, we are taken out of ourselves so as to enter into the concerns of others as an impartial third. Arguably, it is in this novel conception that the Humean doctrine of the indirect passions culminates, which he fittingly refers to as the »system […] of sympathy«.104 The remainder of this chapter is dedicated to this ingenious theory of affect. In book two of THN, Hume relies on his notion of sympathy to describe those human passions which do not arise from pleasure or pain directly, but mediately, »by the conjunction of other qualities.«105 Of this kind are pride or humility, love or hatred _____________ 99 Ibid., 2.1.11.3. 100 By sympathy, Hume means the perception and conception of another’s feelings merely, the motive to act upon these is known under different names such as benevolence. Sympathy, though doubtless a requisite for benevolent action, must not necessarily be attended by it. As Árdal (1966), 51– 52, remarked, Hume fails to explain why or how sympathy gives rise to benevolence. 101 Hume, THN, 2.1.11.4. 102 Ibid., 2.1.11.5. 103 On this note, Waldow (2009), 90, maintained that sympathies are only »projective associations« of the self. Since no two individuals can ever feel exactly the same, Humean sympathy is no principle of communication at all, she claimed. However, this ›problem of other minds‹ is no problem at all for Hume, who acknowledges a sufficient resemblance among all mankind as the foundation of human fellow-feeling. Cf. Pitson (1996), who discussed at length that Hume recognises no epistemological problem concerning other selves. 104 Hume, THN, 3.3.1.15. 105 Ibid., 2.1.1.4.

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and esteem or contempt. Evidently, pride and humility differ from love and hatred in so far as the object of these passions is the self rather than another. Esteem and its counterpart contempt consist in a complex operation combining the other two: first qualities and circumstances of the other are regarded as they are in themselves, giving rise to love or hatred, and then secondly my own qualities and circumstances are evaluated in humility or pride. Finally, the comparison of myself and the other gives rise to esteem or contempt. In other words, when certain passions which have self for their object are related to those that hinge on a social other, esteem arises as a mixture of love and humility or, respectively, contempt as a combination of hatred and pride. Hume explains the operation of these indirect passions more closely by way of an epistemological structure which he calls the double relation of impressions and ideas. That cause, which excites the passion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the passion: From this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is deriv’d.106

The double relation structure is intersubjective in its outlook: even if the object is the self, as in pride and humility, Hume asserts that sympathy serves as an additional cause. Compared against the original causes, fellow-feeling is said to have »an equal influence on the affections.«107 In its attempt to explain more exactly how sympathy functions within the indirect passions, the following concentrates on the relation of pride as Hume envisions it. For the sake of illustration, I take recourse to one of the author’s favourite examples, namely: a gentleman prides himself on possessing a beautiful estate.108 This pride cannot arise from the object – himself – alone, it has some cause which lies outside his self. The cause of a passion is moreover divided into a quality and a subject, upon which that quality is placed, i.e. the estate qualifies as beautiful. To an association of the idea of this cause and the idea of the self is joined a relation of the impressions, producing an easy transition from the emotion caused by the beautiful estate, the pleasure the gentleman reaps from viewing it, to the pleasure thereupon springing from the idea of self. By the association of both the ideas and the impressions in this double relation, the two processes (which consist in a conversion of an idea into an impression) become intertwined, as it were, and only as such produce the indirect passion of pride. Sympathy too is a conversion of an idea into an impression, but how does it enhance the pride that the gentleman feels on account of his beautiful estate? In effect, the sympathetic operation associated with the indirect passions of pride or humility results in a triple relation of impressions and ideas.109 Let us suppose that the gentleman perceives a spectator looking at his estate and reaping pleasure from its beautiful _____________ 106 107 108 109

Ibid., 2.1.5.5. Ibid., 2.1.11.1. Cf. ibid., 2.1.2.6, 2.1.5.9. This is my emphasis. Hume does not explicitly call it that although he clearly has such a structure in mind, cf. my discussion below.

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sight. Conveyed by a sympathy responding to the external signs expressed, the idea of the admirer’s pleasure is presently converted into an impression in the mind of the gentleman who thus sympathetically partakes in his fellow’s pleasure. Explicating Hume, we may assume that when such sympathy becomes a secondary cause of pride, the idea of the bystander’s pleasure must be associated with the gentleman’s idea of the beautiful estate, which in its turn is related to the idea of self. The imagination assures an easy transition among the three ideas and their corresponding impressions, thus rendering the passion more vivid. PASSION OF PRIDE

SYMPATHY

cause: idea of estate qualifying as beautiful

object: idea of our own self

secondary cause: idea of the spectator’s pleasure

pleasure

pleasure'

pleasure''

Ill. 1 Sympathy within the Triple Relation of Impressions and Ideas

The case is much the same where the object of the passion is not us, but another, here also sympathy with a bystander augments the force of the feeling. The love we bear a person is enhanced when we find he is loved by a third, while hatred too is rendered more powerful through sympathy. Similarly, esteem or contempt – being mixtures of love and humility or, respectively, hatred and pride – become more vivid after this manner. Observing »that the minds of men are mirrors to one another«,110 Hume further acknowledges that mutual sympathy between the spectator and the person concerned has a great effect on both their sentiments as these are reflected back and forth: Thus the pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again, being perceiv’d and sympathiz’d with, encrease the pleasure of the possessor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder.111

Such sympathising with a sympathy towards sympathy causes a mutual intensification of pleasure. Certainly, this reciprocity is not a triadic (and thus moral) relation, but only a »double rebound«, as Hume calls it.112 Though it does not give rise to true moral feelings, such rebounding sympathy has the potential to condition social behaviour. When esteem, i.e. a mixture of love and humility, is communicated through sympathy and thus increases the pleasure of pride in the possessor, it supplies him _____________ 110 Hume, THN, 2.2.5.21. 111 Ibid. 112 Ibid., 3.3.2.17.

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with a motivational ground for pursuing and exhibiting his pride to such an extent only as the spectator is ready to enter into. In consequence, the approbation of another checks the proprietor’s passion by means of sympathy. This species of social coercion is what Hume has in mind when, referring to the uniformity of manners among neighbours or countrymen, he asserts that »resemblance arises from sympathy«.113 Fellow-feeling is the means by which many conventions are formed. Thus far, mutual sympathy explains the emergence of certain customs or attitudes only. The question is: can it also discover moral normativity and thereby provide an alternative to (Hutcheson’s) internal sense theory? It is a much-debated question among Hume scholars whether the associationist psychology of sympathy put forward in the second volume of THN is compatible with the sentimentalist ethics conceived in book three. Do the Humean moral sentiments boil down to more complex relations of sympathy, as could be deduced from his theory of the indirect passions, or are they the products of an innate and internal sense which unerringly distinguishes virtue from vice? To my mind, it is too reductive to ask whether Hume takes sides either with associationism or with internal sense theory. Evidently, a significant transformation takes place in the final chapters of book three. Its author comes to understand extensive sympathy, a philosopheme he develops in book two, through an empiricist notion of moral sense posited early on in volume three and vice versa. In the first place, how does Hume conceive of extensive sympathy in his doctrine of the indirect passions? According to the Humean system of sympathy, such fellow-feeling forms part of a complex structure: moral esteem. Generally, the indirect passion esteem (to which Hume also refers as »approbation«114) consists of two connected double relations of impressions and ideas, namely love and humility. It seems that any kind of ethical feeling can be described within this model and indeed Hume insinuates as much: Pride and humility, love and hatred are excited, when there is any thing presented to us, that both bears a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate sensation related to the sensation of the passion. Now virtue and vice are attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily be plac’d either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions; which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us: And this is, perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon the human mind.115

_____________ 113 Ibid., 2.1.11.2. To be sure, this is an assertion which does not contradict his claim that all men resemble one another to some extent due to their partaking in human nature. While there is sufficient uniformity in the general passions, men differ in more subjective feelings and tastes according to their experience. 114 Cf. Hume, THN, 2.1.11.11–12. 115 Ibid., 3.1.2.5.

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Should an action or motive presented to us – which naturally is related to the object of the passion, namely ourselves or another – be virtuous, the pleasure thus caused is associated with a pleasure which simultaneously springs from the idea of the object. The virtuous other is loved, the virtuous self is proud. After the same manner, vicious motives inspire hatred and humility. It is important to note that virtue is understood in sentimentalist terms, i.e. as consisting in good or disinterested feeling, which is known to the spectator only through sympathy. Love of virtue thus stands out among other species of this passion in that here sympathy, instead of being a secondary inducement associated with the double relation of impressions and ideas, enters the structure as an original cause. PASSION OF ESTEEM PASSION OF LOVE

Ill. 2

PASSION OF HUMILITY

SYMPATHY cause: idea of object qualifying as virtuous

object: idea of other

object: idea of our own self

cause: idea of subject qualifying as vicious

pleasure

pleasure'

uneasiness'

uneasiness

Sympathy within the Passion of Esteem

Again explicating Hume, let us suppose that we behold a person relieving the distress of his fellow. When the former’s virtue inspires our love, it is his motivational feelings rather than the beneficial effects of his actions that we approve of.116 Other than the quality of outward beauty for example, which may equally be the cause of love, the affections from which the person’s moral actions spring are perceptible only when they are conveyed to us by sympathy. We infer an idea of the virtuous motives from external signs such as a face full of kindness. As we come to feel these sympathetically, we associate them with the moral agent, being now pleased on his account. Sympathy then is the original cause of our evaluative passion. Taking seriously the Humean distinction between love and esteem, it follows that a love towards virtuous affections will only qualify as moral approbation if by comparison with our own dispositions we are humbled by our fellow’s generosity. Perhaps we perceive that we ourselves would not have had sufficient motive to relieve the dis_____________ 116 Cf. ibid., 3.2.1.4, where Hume makes it clear »that all virtuous actions derive their merit only from virtuous motives«.

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tress of the sufferer. Here, an act of reason comes in: it determines the relation of the respective ideas and accounts that of the other superior to ours. Though based on sympathy with virtue, moral approbation implies an intersubjective comparison of the other and ourselves. According to this epistemological model, moral sensation equals a certain species of sympathy which – when compared with the perceptions of the self – determines the relative (not normative) worth of another’s as well as our own motives. However, the sceptic Hume shies away from professing the relativity of morals. Developing further his associationist explanation of moral approbation, he enlarges on what he had earlier referred to as the rebounding of sympathy. A more complicated form of this structure has the potential to describe normative evaluations: No one, who duly considers of this matter, will make any scruple of allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison, which causes the disagreeable passion of humility. Now as an insolence of this kind is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in particular; nay, in one, whose name is only known to us in history; it follows, that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others, and from the reflection, that such a character is highly displeasing and odious to every one, who converses or has any intercourse with the person possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy with the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound of the sympathy; which is a principle very similar to what we have observ’d on another occasion.117

Hume comes up with a real alternative to internal sense theory here. He conceives of a triadic relation of sympathy that allows us to perceive normative moral distinctions: if the excessive pride of a man is conveyed to us by sympathy, we feel contempt for him even if his attitude does not produce humility in us (perhaps because we are his superiors). What renders the proud man worthy of our disapprobation is not the displeasure we feel on his account, but the uneasiness which he produces in others. We relate to the rebounding sympathies between the boasting person and his humbled audience as an unbiased third-party spectator. Our sympathy is then characterised by impartiality because it is not based on a partial attachment (however disinterested in itself) to any of the two parties.118 It is directed neither towards one nor the other, but their relation. By way of our impartial sympathy with the sympathetic rebound, we thus unerringly determine the original emotion at the bottom of those sympathies as morally good or ill. Put differently, only a genuinely triadic structure allows us to sufficiently tell apart the virtuous from the vicious.119 This is what, to my mind, Hume means by extensive sympathy.120 _____________ 117 Ibid., 3.3.2.17. 118 Any feeling that is motivated by benevolence (or, speaking with Shaftesbury, natural affection) is disinterested. To be also impartial, the benevolent character must direct his sympathy not towards one single person only, but this person’s sympathetic relation to others. 119 Reformulated in the terms of Peirce, sympathy, in that it manifests itself in an emotion, constitutes an interpretant, which may again become the representamen and, in a next step, the object in a tri-

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Epistemologically speaking, the problem is how to always render our passion of approbation adequately impartial after this manner. If we are prone to partiality – for example when there is as a particular resemblance between one of the persons concerned and ourselves – we are likely to be prejudiced. It is then that the triadic model collapses into dyads: if we are affectively related to either of the two relates rather than the sympathetic relation itself, no normative evaluation takes place. Hume is not ignorant of this potential fallacy and hints at a possible means of correcting our sentimental judgment. Our moral feelings will »arrive at a more stable judgment of things«, he writes, if »we fix on some steady and general points of view; and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation.«121 Our sentiments will not be entirely just unless we fancy ourselves perceiving the moral action from an impartial position.122 This of course presupposes that we adopt a perspective distinct from that of experience by means of propositional imaginations. Unlike Shaftesbury, who asserted that sympathy can be rendered impartial by rationalisation only, Hume finds that the task of overcoming bias is in truth an affair of the imagining faculty or, to be more exact, the sympathetic imagination proposing or projecting a general point of view. As is implied in the Humean passage above, this encompasses that we as spectators become unconscious of our own present perceptions which may incline us to take an interest in either side. If we succeed in making ourselves oblivious of what our senses suggest to us and so take an elevated perspective in fancy, we are able to impartially enter into the passions or sympathies of others (and, potentially, those of ourselves) and thus determine their true moral worth. Unlike Adam Smith, who renders this philosopheme the foundation of his ethics, Hume apparently does not trust the sympathetic imagination, as it was later called, to account for human morality single-handedly. In the third book of THN, rather than adhering too closely to his associationist and intersubjective explanation of moral sentiments, he advocates that we receive our first notions of virtue and vice _____________ adic sign relation: A’s sympathy may be related to (or interrelated with) B’s sympathy for a sympathising C. The rebound of sympathies between a benefactor and a beneficiary (to give another example) is interpreted by a third so as to point out the original feeling of benevolence as virtuous. What connects the three relates is not the epistemic effort of the spectator, but a common ground, in this case ›virtue‹, without which there would be no moral normativity. Cf. also ch. 1 in this book, 8–10. 120 Hume uses this expression only sparingly. In THN, 2.2.9.14, he claims that »the extending of our sympathy« is »a great effort of imagination« which depends on »a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person«. As Hume suggests in 3.3.1.23, it is most crucially the imagining of social circumstances, a view of how the passion sympathised with affects and is affected by others, that renders our sympathy ›extensive‹. 121 Ibid., 3.3.1.15. 122 Cf. Bricke (1996), 108–128, who stressed that moral approbation is distinguished from other forms of approbation by an impartial viewpoint, a perspective that is acquired by imaginatively becoming a third person that ›negates‹ the self. For Bricke, the central question is how the subject is motivated to act impartially. He explored what he calls Hume’s moral conativism, the assumption that ethical feelings entail a moral desire, i.e. a direct passion which arises immediately from moral pleasure or pain.

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by way of an »internal sense«.123 Though accredited an inherent principle of the human mind, this sense of morality is no sensus communis that provides access to an innate idea of virtue. Like Hutcheson, Hume follows Locke in refuting the existence of proleptic notions.124 The human mind cannot conceive of any quality per se, whatever aid it may receive from an internal sense. Nor can moral feeling be said to determine the reasonableness of affections and thus initiate a contemplation of virtue. To be sure, Hume’s notion of reason bears no noetic aspect, it is pure rationale: »Reason […] is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations«.125 The operations of reason may only discern the agreement or disagreement of associations, i.e. truth or falsehood. Passions, volitions or actions cannot properly be said to be true or false in this manner because – from a sensualist perspective – they are the original matter-of-fact »realities, compleat in themselves«.126 It is impossible that they should in any way agree with reason and so their supposed conformity with it cannot be accounted the cause of virtue. Hume thus copiously disproves Shaftesbury’s interpretation of moral sense. For the author of THN, reasonable feelings do not exist. As a side note, Hume puts his departure from Shaftesbury and the ancients into perspective when he comments on the moral sense controversy in his 1751 recasting of book three of THN. His EPM opens with the claim that traditional virtue ethics are based on a paradox. From his sensualist point of view, Hume asks whether virtue can be felt by way of a moral sense when it is also believed to consist in a conformity with reason? The ancient philosophers, though they often affirm, that virtue is nothing but conformity to reason, yet, in general, seem to consider morals as deriving their existence from taste and sentiment. […] The elegant Lord Shaftesbury, who first gave occasion to remark this distinction, and who, in general, adhered to the principles of the ancients, is not, himself, entirely free from the same confusion.127

When Hume supposes that ancient philosophers believed virtue to be derived from moral sentiments, he obviously over-stresses the significance a taste of morality had _____________ 123 Hume, THN, 3.1.1.24. The objective reality of the moral quality is of course irrelevant to the sceptic Hume. In consequence, in THN, 3.1.1.26, he reduces vice and virtue to affective sensations in the subjective mind like sounds or colours: »It [vice] lies in yourself, not in the object. So that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and virtue, therefore, may be compar’d to sounds, colours, heat and cold, which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind«. As Cohon (2008), 96–125, proved at length, this does not necessarily mean that the author of THN denies the normativity of moral distinctions. She argued convincingly that while Hume is an anti-realist, he is also a truthcognitivist who concedes that moral assessments are capable of being true or false. 124 Hume attempts to prove in nominalist fashion that what men call general ideas are only particular copies of impressions annexed to a certain term, cf. THN, 1.1.7. 125 Ibid., 3.1.1.24. 126 Ibid., 3.1.1.9. 127 Hume, EPM, 1.4.

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in ancient ethics.128 Somewhat more justly, he accredits Shaftesbury for having made the distinction between moral sensation and that certain soliloquy by which sentiments are endorsed on account of their reasonableness. Shaftesbury’s suggestion that the sense of morality is an epistemological point of entry for the contemplation and recognition of virtue does not satisfy the Scottish sceptic, who ascribes reason to the domain of science and declares that ethics is a matter of feeling only. In anti-realist fashion, though somewhat more positivist than sceptic,129 Hume suggests that the moral sense has a sure foundation in the constitution of man. The case is slightly different in THN. Remarkably, in the final sections of volume three, the supposition that »approbation of moral qualities […] proceeds entirely from a moral taste«130 finds its echo in the assertion that sympathy is that human principle on which our moral sentiments are founded: »sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions«.131 What then is moral feeling, an intersubjective sympathy or an instinctive sense of morality? While scholars commonly agree that Hume equates these two concepts, they are divided as to which of these is dissolved into the other. My emphasis is that for Hume, impartial moral sense signifies extensive sympathy and contrariwise. As a result of this allelopoiesis, the two concepts come to interchange some of their characteristics. Certainly, this is not a very new conjunction. Both Shaftesbury and Hutcheson suggested that ethical feelings constitute a sympathy with the species as a whole. Yet the author of THN reproduces this tenet in his own terms and so transforms it significantly: It requires but very little knowledge of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force, when reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles, from whence it is deriv’d, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient authority; but want the advantage, which those possess, who account for that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind.132

Hume apparently holds on to the system of sympathy developed in book two, but he makes the concession that extensive sympathy answers to an original instinct. Though intersubjective in practice, ethical approbation is not ›artificial‹, i.e. dependent upon custom or agreement. Ontologically speaking, the moral sense does not boil down to relations of sympathy but, on the contrary, extensive sympathy is acknowledged an innate sense. As an impartial third who sympathetically interprets a rebound of sympathy, we are necessarily inclined towards virtue. Put differently, innatism catches up with Hume and so he concedes that the moral normative con_____________ 128 According to Bührmann (2008), 205, Hume was a profound reader of Cicero. In this author’s work On Friendship, XXVII, the theme of moral feeling features prominently. 129 Cf. e.g. Norton (2009b), 290. 130 Hume, THN, 3.3.1.15. 131 Ibid., 3.3.6.1. 132 Ibid., 3.3.6.3.

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tent inheres in sympathy a priori.133 As a result, sympathy ceases to be an empty concept of function. However, the Scottish sceptic is not ready to allow that mankind is ontologically embedded in a sympathetic cosmos and that moral sensations are in effect a predisposition to sympathise with the entire species. Instead, he claims that the first natural sentiment of morals which arises in our breast (sympathy, no doubt) is biased in favour of our nearest relations: »our natural uncultivated ideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality«.134 We approve of the kindness of ourselves and our intimate companions more heartily than that of a random passer-by, Hume suggests. Again, this partiality of the moral sense (or sympathy) can be remedied only when it is reflected in a triadic relation and thus becomes extensive: Now we have no such extensive concern for society but from sympathy; and consequently ’tis that principle, which takes us so far out of ourselves, as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in characters which are useful or pernicious to society, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss.135

As a result, the moral sense comes to signify some species of sympathy, partial in its origins, but impartial when by means of propositional imagination it responds to a triadic relation. The partiality of our approving sympathies is amended when we imagine ourselves as an unbiased third who feels with all those potentially affected by the agent’s actions. By means of sympathetic imagination or »extensive sympathy«,136 we are touched more by the generality of mankind than any one of its members. Again, this fiction of becoming a sympathising impartial onlooker, so crucial to moral discernment, entails that the consciousness of our present perceptions is somehow pushed aside: The imagination adheres to the general views of things, and distinguishes betwixt the feelings they produce, and those which arise from our particular and momentary situation.137

Only when reflected in a triadic relation which puts our present perceptions into perspective, the moral sense qualifies as an extensive sympathy. In other words, the moral sense is assimilated into Hume’s system of sympathy with only a few of its constitutive features. The question that remains is why Hume later omits this soon to be influential transformation, in which the concepts of moral sense and sympathy are mutually productive, from the recasting of his ethical theory in EPM. Why should he withhold his _____________ 133 Mercer (1972), 84–85, not aware that this innatist remnant looms large in book three of THN, asserted that the principal weakness of Hume’s moral theory is that the moral sentiment which distinguishes virtue from vice is founded only on association. By more openly embracing internal sense theory in EPM, Hume certainly strengthens his argument for objective morality. 134 Hume, THN, 3.2.2.8. 135 Ibid., 3.3.1.11. 136 Ibid., 3.3.1.23. 137 Ibid.

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triadic model only to allude indeterminately to a taste in morals?138 My suggestion is that he does this because he is sceptical towards fictions of sympathy that have no sure ground in experience. He could not quite bring himself to trust so much to propositional imagination. In other words, Hume feared that the general perspective in which the spectator places himself may be a mere fantasy prone to error. Suspicious of that flight of fancy which the sympathetic imagination entails, Hume falls back on the moral sense, emphasising that it is at bottom by sense impressions that moral distinctions are discovered. As a staunch empiricist, he is unwilling to trust all to fictions that renders us oblivious of our present perceptions. As shown earlier, the author of THN found fault with the ›fictions of sympathy‹ advocated by ancient philosophers and was not willing to follow in their footsteps. What supports this claim is that Hume’s reservations against the sympathetic imagination as a propositional faculty are obvious in his discussion of prose fiction. Hume of course realises that this philosopheme also explains the communication of passion through a medium such as literature: we must propose that we are in a character’s shoes to feel for him. However, it is important to Hume to state that a text’s relation to empirical reality is crucial in this instance. He thus distinguishes between emotive reader responses to historiographical texts and sympathies caused by the reading of fictional narratives: »If one person sits down to read a book as a romance and another as a true history«, the author explains, »[t]he latter has a more lively conception of all the incidents« and thus »enters deeper into the concerns of the persons«.139 Hume apparently distrusts imaginations not founded upon experience. The future historiographer claims that non-fiction texts provide more lively images to the mind and thus have a greater command of the reader’s sympathy for the portrayed characters than a romance or novel. Though it is of course irrelevant to Hume whether the original affection of the social other is or was objectively real, his understanding of sympathy nonetheless hinges on what he calls belief, i.e. »a more vivid and intense conception of any idea«.140 Only ideas which approach impressions suggest reality and this vivacity is a requisite for effecting spontaneous sympathy. Hume follows Plato in calling poets »liars by profession«141 and doubts that their fictions can be sufficiently true to nature. At a time that witnessed the rise of the English realist novel,142 he claimed that fiction must fail to obtain the full belief of the reader be_____________ 138 This position is also held by Selby-Bigge (1975), xxi, who asserted that Hume’s moral epistemology changes after writing THN. By contrast, Debes (2007), arguing that Hume did not much alter his position throughout his career as a philosopher, has suggested that humanity, a term introduced only in EPM, is for the most part equivalent to sympathy. To my mind, such an equivalence constitutes a transformation that would need to be explored at greater length. In any case, the concept of extensive sympathy is nowhere mentioned in EPM. For a comparative list of the most frequent words in EPM and THN, cf. Beauchamp’s introduction to Hume’s EPM, lxiii. 139 Hume, THN, 1.3.7.8. 140 Ibid., 1.3.10.3. 141 Ibid., 1.3.10.5. 142 Remarkably, Hume slights fiction for its lack of realism precisely when the realist novel was on the rise, cf. Watt (2001), esp. 9–30.

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cause it cannot convey ideas to his mind that are as vivid as those copied from sense perception. The author fiercely dismisses the claim that ideas suggested by fictional literature can ever rouse the feelings as much as those of the memory: »There is something weak and imperfect amidst all that seeming vehemence of thought and sentiment, which attends the fictions of poetry.«143 All imaginations, whether they attempt to move or not, must stand the test of experience and in Hume’s eyes those of the poet, playwright or novelist scarcely ever do. Elsewhere, commenting on the nature of tragedy, Hume goes as far as to suggest that fiction is ever accompanied by disbelief because an idea of falsehood is always associated with the notions it gives rise to. Supposedly, the reader never ceases to be conscious of the theatricality of the play he is watching or the fictitious nature of the book he is reading and, as a result, is less sympathetic towards the characters.144 Remarkably, Hume fails to acknowledge the aesthetic along with the moral functions of the sympathetic imagination. Though he asserts that the moral spectator who imagines himself as an impartial bystander must become oblivious of his present perceptions, he does not concede that this is also true of the reader of fiction. Indeed, this oblivion which enables us to sympathise impartially and thus have sound moral sentiments is but momentary and part-way for Hume. The author supposes that extensive or moral sympathy can very easily be at conflict with present perceptions.145 Thus, it cannot be endured over a longer course of time. Hume is hesitant to acknowledge that the sympathetic imagination is morally relevant, let alone that it furnishes readers with suspension of disbelief and so enables them to enter into the concerns of fictional characters without reservation. In consequence, he does not grasp the ethical significance of reading fiction. The Scottish sceptic is not ready to allow that a reader lost in reverie is as impartially affected as a moral spectator who, as he takes a general perspective, embarks on an unselfconscious flight of fancy. Hume was no doubt the maker of the sympathetic imagination, but it would be up to Adam Smith, Lord Kames and others to elaborate on its moral and aesthetic functions.

_____________ 143 Hume, THN, 1.3.10.10. 144 Cf. Hume, »Of Tragedy«, in: Essays and Treatises on Several Subjects, 130: »However we may be hurried away by the spectacle; whatever dominion the senses and imagination may usurp over the reason, there still lurks at the bottom a certain idea of falshood in the whole of what we see. This idea, tho’ weak and disguised, suffices to diminish the pain which we suffer from the misfortunes of those whom we love, and to reduce that affliction to such a pitch as converts it into a pleasure.« 145 Cf. Hume, THN, 3.3.1.23.

CHAPTER 4: FROM ETHICS TO POETICS OF SYMPATHY

The Three Dimensions of the Sympathetic Imagination Although David Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature »fell dead-born from the press«1 in 1738, as its author sadly recalled in his autobiography, the philosophy of sympathy laid out in the work met with great acclaim in the intellectual circles of Edinburgh in the 1750s and 60s. Hume was the co-founder of The Select Society, one of the most influential organisations of the Scottish Enlightenment, as was Lord Kames, a patron of the arts and distant cousin of his, and Adam Smith, who had recently taken over Hutcheson’s chair of moral philosophy at Glasgow University. Together, the three men represented the world of letters among the fifteen founding members of this Edinburgh establishment.2 The mutual sympathies between Hume and Smith are legendary and gave rise to an intimate friendship. Yet while they shared many personal opinions and philosophical interests, the two friends did not agree on the aesthetic and, in consequence, the moral effects of sympathy. Hume, who had recently turned historiographer and was now working on his History of England, held that sympathies for fiction are much less vivid than those for true history, and on that account less morally relevant. Smith, on the other hand, was ready to base his entire ethical theory on the sympathetic imagination which he saw at work in the minds of theatregoers and readers of fiction.3 Similarly, but to different ends, Lord Kames developed his ethics from observations on the effects of tragedy as he explored the link between sympathy and the spectacle. This link had been notorious since the art of David Garrick began to charm theatre audiences. »When I hear Mr. Garrick speak«, the anonymous author of a work of criticism titled Cursory Remarks on Tragedy asserted, »I feel, because he seems to feel; and that I do involuntarily and instantaneously.«4 This is only one of many contemporary records that celebrate the famous actor for inspiring strong sympathies among London theatregoers.5 Although he never played in front of a Scottish audience, Garrick’s art could not have been unknown in Scotland.6 After seeing him perform as King Lear at the Drury Lane Theatre in London in 1763, the diarist James Boswell, a student of Adam Smith, noted that he was »fully moved, and […] _____________ 1 2 3 4 5 6

Hume, »My Own Life«, xxviii. Cf. e.g. Mossner (1980), esp. 281. This is because for Hume, sympathy is first and foremost a sensation, whereas for Smith it is predominantly a sympathetic imagination, cf. my discussion below. Anonymous, Cursory Remarks on Tragedy, 16. Cf. the biography of Garrick by Fitzgerald (1868), esp. 88–92, which reproduces a number of contemporary sources. Garrick received letters from Scottish admirers as early as in 1759, cf. The Private Correspondence of David Garrick, I, 95, 142–145 and esp. the letters by James Beattie, 432, and James Boswell, 621– 622, two leading figures of the Scottish Enlightenment.

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shed abundance of tears.«7 To Scottish readers of the comic novel Tom Jones, the actor was introduced already in 1749: Henry Fielding’s Garrick, in his famed role of Hamlet, elicits sympathy from Patridge to such a degree that the schoolmaster deems the actor’s performance perfectly artless. He thus proclaims Garrick the worst player on the stage, arguing that anyone could act what he really feels.8 As this ironic passage indicates, realistic acting was defined, above all, by its sympathetic appeal. The example of Garrick suggests that a command of the spectator’s sympathy was the essential thing of dramatic realism in the Age of Sensibility. Thus at least since the mid eighteenth-century, David Marshall has argued, the sentimentalist conception of sympathy was genuinely theatrical, thereby connecting moral and aesthetic discourse.9 Marshall’s supposition, which has found many echoes,10 is that the sympathetic communication of sentiments came to be regarded as a matter of acting and spectating: when we associate with our fellows, we are like an actor on the stage, expected to play a part in the theatre of society. The expressions we give to our emotions are potentially under the scrutinising observation of a crowd of critics, who may or may not sympathise approvingly. Though this argument more or less describes the position of Adam Smith, it certainly does not reproduce that of Lord Kames. The third and often forgotten member of the Edinburgh ›triumvirate‹ of moral sentimentalists had a vastly different perspective on theatrical sympathy. For him, it is not moral philosophy which sets foot in the theatre, but the spectacle that enters the philosopher’s tower. From drama, Kames argued, we can learn that universal sympathy operates by means of sight. Accordingly, it is through (quasi-)visual sensations that we partake in the feelings of characters in the moral or fictional world. Though sympathy is thus spectatorial, it also affects readers, namely by means of propositional imagination. When we fancy ourselves in the position of an actual spectator of the narrated action, sufficient mental imagery will allow us to sympathise with the protagonist. Thus, the notion of an imagination-based sympathy no doubt emerged from the interplay of poetics and moral philosophy, as Marshall suggested. Yet it remains to be acknowledged that the concept was conceived differently by its two principal advocates Kames and Smith. The emphasis of my discussion below is that the two men explained the sympathetic imagination within divergent sentimentalist frameworks.11 _____________ 7 8 9

10 11

Entry for Thursday, 12 May 1763, in: The Journals of James Boswell, 63. Cf. Fielding, Tom Jones, 554–557. Cf. Marshall (1986), and Marshall (1988), esp. 2, where he makes this intimate relation between sympathy and theatre explicit: »I included Smith in the book because his treatise on sympathy seemed to me to be about the problem of theatricality, but I began to sense that texts which reflected or reflected on the problem of theatricality might also be addressing the question of sympathy.« Cf. Griswold (1999), 66–68, 82–83, Fludernik (2001a), Lamb (2009), 64–67, and Schwalm (2015), 156–159. Some of the thoughts developed in this chapter were first presented, though in a much less elaborate form, in Barton (2018b), 178–184. In this article, I called Smith’s a ›narrative‹ and Kames’ a ›theatrical‹ conception of sympathy, a differentiation which has since proved too reductionist.

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Systematically speaking, Smith and Kames explore the three following dimensions of the sympathetic imagination as a propositional faculty. Firstly, both authors are convinced that the human fancy can in some way or other provide us with an epistemological access to our fellow’s feelings. To propose in idea that we are in the position of another or, respectively, in view of his impassioned body, is then the means of our sympathising. The fellow-feeling is bilateral (A↔B), an actual relation of co-affectability is revealed and thus we feel with one another. Secondly, Smith claimed, our imagination may make us sympathise with feelings we assume the other must feel in the circumstances he finds himself in, although this is not so in reality. Citing Smith’s boldest example, we feel the horrors of being trapped in a coffin when we fancy ourselves in the situation of our deceased fellow, although the dead person surely can have no such sensations. In more or less the same manner, Kames points out, readers of fiction feel with feigned characters once they have suspended disbelief. Though to the moral spectator or reader the sympathy appears ›real‹, at least momentarily, it is in such cases not the imagination which is sympathetic, strictly speaking, but the sympathy that is imaginative. Due to an epistemological error, the fellow-feeling is unilateral (A→B). In short, we feel for another, not with him. Thirdly, and finally, Kames observed that we may not only step into another’s shoes in idea, but even fancy ourselves the wearer of those shoes: rather than merely entering into another’s situation, we assume his personality entirely and annihilate ourselves in the process. Put differently, we self-identify with another. As Kames and his successors pointed out, such an operation of the imagination is very rare and requires great sensibility, yet it is mandatory for conceiving fictional characters with a realistic set of passions. The subjective mind performs an identification (A=B) and so the artist feels into rather than with or for another. This third species of the sympathetic imagination, being in fact a sympathetic creative imagination, is that which would outlive the era of sentimentalism and catch on among Romantic writers.12 John Keats has perhaps illustrated it best: »if a Sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the Gravel.«13 Not only the poet’s present perceptions, but also his memories, natural dispositions or temperaments and even his humanity can be temporarily annihilated by a sympathetic (or perhaps: empathetic)14 imagination of this kind. Smith and Kames discuss this threefold understanding of sympathetic imagination in their moral and aesthetic writings from the late 1740s to the early 1760s. Subsequently, in the two following decades, the concept defined both the sympathetic narration and the narrative handling of sympathy in the male sentimental novel. _____________ 12

13 14

Although the distinction between propositional and creative imagination adequately describes different functions of the fancy, it is nonetheless one of degree rather than category. Indeed, the creation of possible worlds requires a great many propositions in idea. Cf. my discussion below and also Schwalm (2015), 172. Keats, »Letter to Benjamin Bailey, November 22, 1817«, in: Keats’s Poetry and Prose, 102–104, here 103. Cf. ch. 1 in this book, 3–4, and my discussion below.

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Narrative and Theatrical Forms of Fellow-Feeling: Adam Smith on the Sympathies of Readers and Theatregoers Sympathy plays an important part in our experience of reading. For Adam Smith, who began his academic career with a series of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres given in Edinburgh for three consecutive years from 1748 onward, this was the starting point from which he developed a full-scale philosophy of sympathy. That which most nearly interests us in a narrative of any kind, he supposed in one of his lectures, are »the Sympatheticall affections« that move us on behalf of the personages represented and make us »feel for them in some respect as if we ourselves were in the same condition.«15 Subsequently, when Smith defined his pivotal concept of sympathy at the outset of his 1759 work The Theory of Moral Sentiments as »our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever«, he did so with a regard to the emotions aroused in us by »heroes of tragedy or romance«.16 He argued that whether we feel for the various passions of a fictional character or sympathise with our real-life neighbour, we must in either case assume the other’s place in idea and »bring his case home to ourselves«.17 Interestingly, this is the exact phrase Lord Shaftesbury had used in his essay »Soliloquy; or: Advice to an Author« to describe a reader’s propositional imaginations.18 In TMS, the expression is a recurring formula and synonymous for sympathy. Shaftesbury apparently serves as a signal point of reference. However, Smith makes use of yet another key poetological text, or so it seems. His assertion that our sympathy with our fellow requires that, by means of propositional imagination, »we place ourselves in his situation« so as to »become in some measure the same person with him«19 echoes Edmund Burke.20 Briefly explaining the effects of tragedy, Burke had claimed in his recent study of sublimity and beauty that »sympathy must be con_____________ 15 16

17 18

19 20

Smith, Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 90. Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (thenceforth cited as TMS), 1.1.1.4–5. Smith feels obligated to explicate that sympathy is not simply synonymous to pity or compassion. Apparently, by the mid eighteenth century, the meaning of the term had narrowed in common usage. Even Smith himself, who speculates that the primordial meaning of sympathy must have been the same as that of pity and compassion, fails to acknowledge the concept’s origins in natural philosophy and related fields. Ibid., 1.1.1.7. Cf. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 258. As the editors of the Glasgow Edition of TMS note in their »Introduction«, 11, Smith’s moral theory is characterised by »[t]he unconscious repetition of phrases, both from his own earlier work and from that of other writers«. Further below I discuss this point at greater length. Cf. Smith, TMS, 1.1.1.2. Smith and Burke would become personal friends who shared political as well as philosophical interests and opinions. From late 1775 onwards, they were both members of the London Literary Club. As Frazer (2015), 358, has pointed out in his article, the most recent contribution to the longstanding discussion about the two men’s relationship, Burke received a free copy of TMS from the hands of David Hume, who in turn introduced him to Smith by letter. Whether Smith had known Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful published in 1757 previous to their taking up correspondence on 10 September 1759 is unknown. The work is thenceforth cited as Enquiry.

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sidered as a sort of substitution, by which we are put into the place of another man«.21 To sympathise fully, the two authors agreed, means to step into the shoes of another. Smith certainly conceded that certain sensations such as the perception of a sad facial expression (or, by analogy, a sensory imagination of this kind) may give rise to a general idea of passion.22 However, he emphasised that genuine sympathy demands an imaginary change of places and thus comes to pass precisely in the way our emotions are stirred by fictions. In other words, Smith’s is a theory of the sympathetic imagination. Venturing into the field of poetics, he ascertained that propositional fancy plays the principal role in human sympathies. Thus conceived, the Smithian concept of fellow-feeling is subjectively tinged. Even when the person concerned is physically co-present, we as sympathetic spectators are employed in introspection rather than extrospection. This does not necessarily mean that our sympathising is ungrounded. We may certainly, by way of sound propositions, come to feel more or less what the other feels and be thus in true sympathy with the person concerned. To place ourselves in the position of the other in idea can be a means of gaining epistemological access to the other’s affections.23 Nevertheless, the author points out many cases in which we feel on behalf of another what he himself does not feel »because, when we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast from the imagination, though it does not in his from the reality.«24 For instance, Smith supposes that we feel for the dead by imagining ourselves in their coffin, and are thus affected by a horror which the corpse can have no sensation of: we feel for rather than with the deceased.25 Since the reality of the original passion is apparently of no importance to Smithian sympathy, it becomes all too clear that the author regards the subjective imagination (and not sensitive nature) as the bedrock of fellow-feeling. Other than David Hume, he has no reservations against ›fictions of sympathy‹.26 Smith is not in the least troubled that what we are made to feel by means of our fancy could be without foundation in sense experience. In spite of this, the Smithian account of sympathy has frequently been called ›spectatorial‹, the claim being that visual sensation is central to it.27 More recently, Charles Griswold has suggested that in line with »philosophers back to Plato«,28 Smith developed a moral epistemology founded on cognitive vision. Opposing him to Rousseau, Griswold concluded that by relying on such a figure of thought, Smith remained ignorant of the fact that »a discursive description of the situation« which points to the »causal relations« of the relevant events, is a necessary requisite for our _____________ 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28

Burke, Enquiry, 44. Cf. Smith, TMS, 1.1.1.8. Cf. ibid., 1.1.1.2. Ibid., 1.1.1.10. Cf. ibid., 1.1.1.13. Cf. ch. 3 in this book, 64–65, 78–79. Cf. e.g. Brown (1994), 27, who has argued that for Smith »moral judgments are made on the basis of a spectatorial sympathy« and the article by Kelly (2013), 207, which claims that TMS pivots on »spectatorial judgment«. Griswold (2010), 68.

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sympathising with another.29 This however means contrasting Smith unfairly with the French philosopher. Two objections need to be raised. Firstly, to Smith’s empiricist account of moral sentiments, which makes away with the supposition of an innate and internal sense of morality, the Platonic notion of cognitive vision, being as Hugh H. Benson puts it »a kind of direct and unmediated intuition between a person and an object«,30 must be altogether alien.31 Smith is sure to assert at the very outset of his TMS that unless the causal chain of events is established, which is almost always done by means of narrative, no genuine sympathy, and hence no moral sentiment will arise in our breast. Secondly, as David Marshall has long since shown in his seminal study, it is not the spectacle as such but more precisely the figure of the theatre which serves Smith to establish an intersubjective understanding of human morality:32 the moral agent places himself under the imagined ›gaze‹ of a spectating audience so that, as an actor on the stage of life, he exhibits only those passions which his feigned spectators can readily enter into. This is a strong metaphor, as I argue further below, but a metaphor only. Epistemologically speaking, sensations of sight are not key to Smithian sympathy or moral sentiment. Smith’s first mention of the term spectator in TMS makes it sufficiently clear that he does not generally conceive of sympathy as ›spectatorial‹ in a literal sense. If we are an »attentive spectator«, Smith says, we will feel »joy for the deliverance of those heroes of tragedy or romance«, go along with their grief, and if they are the object of good or ill conduct, enter into their gratitude and resentment.33 Originally, it seems, the Smithian spectator is a theatregoer, but a theatregoer whose sympathy is exactly analogous to that of a reader of romance. It follows that the spectacle of passion as such is not constitutive for human sympathising as Smith envisions it. In the paragraph after next, he claims that fellow-feeling hardly ever arises from the visual perception of a passion expressed in the countenance or bodily movements of another. »Sympathy«, Smith argues, »does not arise so much from the view of the passion, as from that of the situation which excites it.«34 The sympathising spectator whom the author has in mind is not a passer-by who is struck by a tearful countenance and immediately begins to weep himself. Sympathy in the Smithian sense depends on propositions concerning the situation of our fellow. Sometimes, we may be able to grasp the circumstances of his feeling merely by looking at the ›scene‹ of his passion. When we behold a person whose finger is shut in a door, we may easily conclude _____________ 29 30 31

32

33 34

Ibid., 68–69. Benson (2015), 216. As Maria A. Carrasco (2001), esp. 13–14, has argued in her brilliant article, Smith’s theory is at odds with the ›spectatorial ethics‹ of his contemporaries in that it emphasises the moral significance of intersubjective sympathy for moral judgment. Similarly, Darwall (1999), 141, has noted that »the perspective of moral judgment, according to Smith, is not strictly a spectator’s standpoint at all.« Cf. Marshall (1986), 167–192, esp. 174–175, and Marshall (1988), 5: »For Smith, acts of sympathy are structured by theatrical dynamics that […] depend on people’s ability to represent themselves as tableaux, spectacles, and texts before others.« Smith, TMS, 1.1.1.4. Ibid., 1.1.1.10.

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that he is experiencing pain. In the majority of cases, however, our own visual impressions will not suffice to inform us of the other’s situation: The first question which we ask is, What has befallen you? Till this be answered, though we are uneasy both from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still more from torturing ourselves with conjectures about what it may be, yet our fellow-feeling is not very considerable.35

What exactly Smith understands by the linguistic representation of a situation is crucial.36 One possible reading could be that the affected other has to give a description of his own perceptions and thereby ›paint a picture‹ for his spectators. This would mean that his sympathisers really become spectators in idea and that their assessment of the situation is quasi-visual. Alternatively, the sufferer may have to produce a narrative of the incidents that caused his passion. Narrating a sequence of events, he can point out causes and their effects in order to make sense of his situation. In this case, the so-called ›spectators‹ would engage with a discursive representation. Simply put, the pivotal question is whether a minute description of a sufferer’s sensations or else a narrative suggesting the causality behind this situation is productive of fellow-feeling. Smith’s reply is unambiguous: »our sympathy […] before we are informed of the cause«, he says, »is always extremely imperfect.«37 The narrative dimension of fellow-feeling gains momentum in TMS because Smith considers sympathy not so much as a physical co-sensation, but as a moral sentiment that indicates approbation. He shows little interest in cases in which sympathy arises from the perception of external signs (or, alternatively, a description of the sensations) which Hutcheson and Hume were still preoccupied with. The kind of sympathising Smith has in mind is evaluative: »To approve of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to observe that we entirely sympathize with them«.38 If we succeed in bringing the case home to ourselves exactly like a theatregoer or reader of romance who imagines himself acting the part of the protagonist in a sequence of events, we thus determine the propriety of the passion in question, i.e. we ascertain whether the feeling is appropriate to the cause that excited it. We will fully sympathise and approve only when – mostly through narrative – we gain knowledge of the chain of causes and effects and find that the passions felt really correspond to their circumstances. In consequence, we will not shed tears over _____________ 35 36

37 38

Ibid., 1.1.1.9. I here follow the traditional distinction between description and narration. Most generally speaking, a narrative is a representation of at least two events and thus a succession, whereas a description characteristically represents objects or situations in their simultaneity. Certainly, however, descriptions are often part of narratives. More recent studies on the subject have thus challenged the definition of description as a non-narrative, suggesting that it too can provide narrative order, cf. e.g. Ronen (1997), esp. 275. Speaking with Werner Wolf (2002), esp. 33–34, narrations, unlike descriptions, are representations that are concerned with changes of situation that are meaningful in a causal sense. Put differently, they suggest that a particular event or effect B happened because of an event or cause A. Narrative thus defined is what Smith has in mind and accounts morally relevant. Smith, TMS, 1.1.1.9. Ibid., 1.1.3.1.

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a whiner, who we learn is in distress because of a mere trifle. In Smith’s moral epistemology, sympathy depends less on the spectacle and more on a narrative ordering of events that establishes their causal relations. This does not mean, however, that the theatre is an unfit metaphor for human morality as Smith envisions it. For one, the theatrical spectator personifies the point of view of an unbiased third particularly well. He is by definition a moral spectator in the sense that he has no previous attachment to any of the characters represented on the stage and can have no immediate interest in taking sides with either party. He is quite literally removed from the scene. Certainly, this is true also of the reader of romances. More specifically, however, the notion of ›theatricality‹ pinpoints that in TMS, morality is considered not as an innate or natural given but as something to be enacted or performed in intersubjective relations of sympathy. It is in this sense that Smith calls human distress the ›stage‹ on which a virtuous character may act to gain universal favour: »noblest propriety«, he says, displays itself only in misfortunes and so these »are the only proper theatre which can exhibit its virtue to advantage, and draw upon it the full applause of the world.«39 What counts as moral perfection is thus determined by the ›gaze‹ of theatrical spectators, whose disinterested sympathy is sympathetically anticipated by the actor who seeks applause as he performs his part. Hence to my mind, the figure of theatre distinguishes the intersubjective ethics in TMS most strongly from moral sense theory proper, which by contrast supposes that moral sentiments are grounded in an innate and internal sense of right and wrong.40 It perfectly illustrates that according to Smith, only the imagination of a scrutinising audience that keeps watch over our actions can inspire us with sound notions of moral good and evil. I thus readily agree with David Marshall that »for Adam Smith, moral philosophy has entered the theatre«,41 but my emphasis is that as a result, the spectacle of passion has quit the playhouse. At least, this is suggested by Smith’s discussion of what a theatregoer attending a tragedy is bound to feel. The respective section, which gives voice to the author’s deep scepticism towards spontaneous and spectatorial sympathy, aims to answer the question why joy is more frequently sympathised with than grief: »Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before company?«42 Initially, Smith claimed that to sympathise is to approve, but here he explicitly distinguishes the primary »sympathetic passion« from the secondary »sen_____________ 39 40

41 42

The chapter which makes this argument in the first edition was omitted in later versions of the work. It is printed as a variant in TMS, 58–60, here 58 (emphasis mine). Smith agreed with David Hume that moral distinctions are discerned by sympathy, compare TMS, 1.1.3–4, and THN, 3.3.1.15, 3.3.2.16–17. This claim was refuted by Lord Kames, among others, who was inclined towards internal sense theory, cf. my discussion below and Essay on the Principles of Morality and Natural Religion, 92: »From the beginning to the end of the Enquiry, Mr. Hume appears to have totally overlooked that innate sense of duty, that authority of conscience, which is a law to man, regulating his conduct in society.« Marshall (1986), 169. Smith, TMS, 1.3.1.10.

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timent of approbation« in an explanatory footnote.43 The former is a mere sensation, which takes place only if the person sympathised with is in sight and hearing of the spectator, as is the case in a theatrical performance. This may be both pleasurable, namely in the instance of joy, or painful, when the original passion is grief. Meanwhile, that other kind of sympathy Smith predominantly refers to is based on propositional imagination and thus approves of the passions of others. Such evaluative sympathy, being a moral pleasure, is always agreeable.44 Instead of criticising Smith’s seemingly inconsistent use of the term sympathy, as some have done, I want to give credit to the crucial distinction he makes between a primary sympathetic sensation and a secondary sympathetic imagination.45 Smith’s argument is very straightforward. While the latter always indicates propriety, the former is very often both unpleasant and improper: But it is painful to go along with grief, and we always enter into it with reluctance. When we attend to the representation of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest the spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy and weakness.46

Jonathan Lamb has called this sympathetic response a form of »stoical hypocrisy«.47 The spectator is sensible of a tragic character’s sorrow, but since this is unpleasant, he does not enter into it right away. When through propositional imagination he finds that the passions represented by the actor have sufficient cause, he finally sympathises, but he also anticipates that the other members of the audience may disapprove of his fellow-feeling. Thus, he is careful not to let his affections show and conceals his tears.48 In this theatrical setting, knowing that he is likely to be observed by fellow spectators, he scrutinises his sympathy. Once he internalises this ›theatre‹ of sympathy, he is endowed with self-command.49 Hence the spectacle of passion, supposedly cherished only by effeminate and weak spectators, is brought into bad repute. As a result, tragedy loses much of its sympathetic appeal and moral charm.50 _____________ 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50

Ibid., 1.3.1.9nb. Certainly, since Smith supplanted the moral sense by intersubjective relations of fellow-feeling, he must concede that there is no positive moral dislike, but only an absence of sympathy. For instance, Griswold (1999), esp. 79–80, claimed that Smith uses sympathy sometimes in the sense of a communication of feelings and sometimes in the sense of a subjective emotion such as pity. Smith, TMS, 1.3.1.9. Lamb (2009), 66. Lamb’s reading is that Smithian self-command is similar to the dissimulation of actors. Ideally, he would have to scrutinise his passion by feeling not with the other spectators, but an impartial observer, cf. my discussion below. Smith discussed this at greater length in TMS, 6.3. Cf. Marshall (1986), 184: »Smith’s endorsement of Stoic ideas can be seen as the result of an antitheatrical sensibility; Smith stands for the opposite of exhibitionism.«

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Smith certainly leans towards Stoicism, yet he is also at heart a sentimentalist.51 That he is so sceptical towards tragedy has nothing to do with the fact that it affects the spectators in a sentimental manner, but because it does so by way of performance. Certainly, even Aristotle, the father of literary theory, was critical of tragedies that move their spectators chiefly by the display of anguishes.52 However, the author of TMS is much more radically averse to theatrical representations of passion. For Aristotle, the suffering of the characters (pathos), as instanced in public deaths, physical agony or serious wounds, is one of the three compulsory elements of a tragedy’s action.53 Smith, on the other hand, thinks that bodily pain of all sorts should not be acted out on stage, even when the train of events would justify it. At a time when David Garrick charmed theatre audiences, the realistic performance of physical suffering must have been fairly common on the British stage. This however was precisely what Smith resented: a spectacle of impassioned bodies that gives rise to spontaneous, unchecked sympathies in full neglect of propriety. The Scottish philosopher accordingly believed that some of the best known tragedies of antiquity are in breach of decorum. The wailings of Euripides’ Hippolytus or Sophocles’ Philoctetes, who readily inform us of their bodily agonies, are not worthy of our sympathy. Only characters who hide their suffering out of a regard for their spectators are entitled to sentiments of approbation. Supposedly, the sole circumstance which can interest us in the fate of Philoctetes is his solitary situation, into which we readily enter: It is not the sore foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and diffuses over that charming tragedy, that romantic wildness, which is so agreeable to the imagination.54

In stark contrast to Neoptolemus who, when he finds the Argonaut in severe pain, is so strongly affected that he returns to him the stolen bow, the Smithian spectators coldly disapprove of his making a fuss about his leg wound. It follows that what Aristotle calls the purification of emotions (catharsis), such as spectators experience who attend a tragedy, cannot be of much consequence to Smith.55 Indeed, the theatre loses much of its moral significance precisely when the Scottish philosopher spells out his ethics in theatrical terms. The ›theatricality‹ of sympathetic relations – our being affected by or affecting a second and, while thus sympathising, being observed by a third person – is subject to further elaboration in TMS. Smith’s ultimate aim is to substantiate that this triadic relation of sympathy allows us to determine whether something is normatively right or wrong. It is but too plain that for this purpose, Smith draws on key passages in _____________ 51 52 53 54

55

Cf. my discussion of Smith’s Stoicism further below. Cf. Aristotle, Poetics, 1453b. Cf. ibid., 1452b. For Aristotle, the three elements of plot are reversal, recognition and suffering. Smith, TMS, 1.2.1.11. Again, since the knowledge of Philoctetes’ history is considered the chief requisite for fellow-feeling, it appears that the narrative rather than the spectacle underpins Smith’s concept of sympathy. The end of tragedy is to produce such catharsis in the spectator by evoking pity (eleos) and fear (phobos), cf. Aristotle, Poetics, 1449b. Unlike Smith, Kames provides a sentimental interpretation of these concepts, cf. my discussion below.

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Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature.56 Firstly, the Humean ›double rebound‹ of sympathy, the mutual intensification of feelings that are sympathetically reflected back and forth between two or more individuals, finds an echo in the Smithian notion of »redoubled sympathy«.57 Our sympathising with the kindness of another, who acts benevolently towards us, gives rise to grateful benevolence on our part, which is conveyed back to the benefactor, who again is inclined to kindness et cetera. Following the argument in THN, Smith claims that when such a sympathetic rebound is interpreted by the sympathy of an impartial third, sound moral sentiments are formed on account of this triadic relation. Any »indifferent spectator«, such as a theatregoer beholding the mutual sympathies of the characters on the stage, will in cases of »redoubled« benevolent affection »enter into the satisfaction both of the person who feels them, and of the person who is the object of them.«58 Exactly like Hume, Smith thus distinguishes between direct and indirect sympathy. The first, being a sympathising with him who acts, is denominated the sense of propriety, whereas a compound of both this direct sympathy and an indirect sympathy with him who is acted upon, is said to produce a sense of merit. In both cases, propositional imagination is key, as Smith’s discussion of the sympathetic effects of reading suggests. When we read the histories of virtuous men, Smith writes, we become the very person whose actions are represented to us: we transport ourselves in fancy to the scenes of those distant and forgotten adventures, and imagine ourselves acting the part of a Scipio or a Camillus, a Timoleon or an Aristides. So far our sentiments are founded upon the direct sympathy with the person who acts. Nor is the indirect sympathy with those who receive the benefit of such actions less sensibly felt. Whenever we place ourselves in the situation of these last, with what warm and affectionate fellow-feeling do we enter into their gratitude towards those who served them so essentially?59

Without any doubt, this passage echoes Hume who asserted that to conceive a just notion of merit, we must place ourselves equally in the situation of the benefactor and the beneficiary, thus becoming an impartial third party. Smith suggests that the reader of fiction, who is thus »indifferent«, epitomises the impartial spectator. His being utterly removed from the universe that is represented – even more so than theatrical spectators, whose sense impressions may yet impact their sentiments – renders him completely impartial. Speaking with Hume, his unselfconscious reverie of being in the benefactor’s as well as the beneficiary’s shoes makes him apt to sympathise ›extensively‹. Smith’s emphasis is that, when we sympathise with an internalised impartial spectator to establish moral self-command, we imagine the scrutinising reader of our own story. This transformation of Humean extensive sympathy is small but significant. There is agreement among the two philosophers that the impartial fellow-feeling of an _____________ 56 57 58 59

Compare ch. 3 in this book, 64–79. Smith, TMS, 1.2.4.1. Ibid. Ibid., 2.1.5.3.

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unbiased third, which is directed towards the sympathetic rebound, determines the agent’s action as meritorious or virtuous. Yet while Hume was hesitant to assert that the propositional imagination of fictional others could be sufficiently sympathetic, in his sense of the word,60 Smith claimed that proposing an imaginary situation, and being thus oblivious of our present perceptions, is the very basis of true sympathy. The signal difference between the two philosophers is that the latter focussed on fellow-feeling grounded on propositional imagination, whereas the former mostly regarded sympathy as an affective response to the perception of external signs.61 In other words, Hume shied away from ›fictions of sympathy‹, because he feared they may not be empirically true, whereas Smith embraced them wholeheartedly. It is no great surprise then that Smith’s transformation acknowledges the moral significance of reading fiction. Certainly, Smith does not mean to say that the ardent bookworm is always right in matters of morality. A reader who remarks a chance resemblance between one of the characters and himself might well come to dwell on his own present circumstances and feel inclined to applaud the unmeritorious. His reverie being at an end, the triadic relation collapses into dyads and his impartiality is forfeited.62 It follows that an author who aims to inspire us with a strong sense of merit must render us impartial by diverting us from our own personal situation. Accordingly, when Smith claims that in point of moral guidance, »poets and romance writers […] are […] much better instructors than Zeno, Chrysippus, or Epictetus«,63 he has only such literature in mind that strongly commands our sympathy for others and not that which impels us to reflect on ourselves. The Shaftesburian expression »bringing the case home to ourselves« is thus radically rewritten in TMS. Here, it has come to signify self-oblivion rather than self-contemplation. Accordingly, Smith’s preferred genre of literature is not one in which a strong contrast of virtue and vice makes us contemplate moral truth, as Shaftesbury had envisioned, but one that seeks to affect us on behalf of others by the bright display of a great many passions. To inspire us with a sense of merit, the Scottish philosopher maintains, an author must »paint the refinements and delicacies of love and friendship, and of all other private and domestic affections«.64 The only English writer Smith finds worth mentioning in this respect is Samuel Richardson, the suggestion being that he would rather have us weep for Clarissa or Pamela than engage us in a philosophical soliloquy as advocated by Shaftesbury and the Stoics. Nonetheless, Smith is otherwise much inclined towards Stoicism and in this (as well as a number of other respects) he indeed resembles Shaftesbury, as a handful of _____________ 60

61 62 63 64

As pointed out earlier, a likely reason why Hume omitted the structure of the sympathetic imagination from his EPM is that he had reservations against ›fictions of sympathy‹ which he believed to lack sufficient ground in sense experience. Accordingly, he believed that fictional literature has less command of our sympathy than factual history. This difference has already been noted by Darwall (1999), esp. 144. Compare ch. 3 in this book, 74. Smith, TMS, 3.3.14. Ibid.

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scholars have noted. With one exception, these previous interpretations approach the subject only tentatively and consider two issues. Firstly, they observe that both Shaftesbury and Smith suppose (somewhat in the fashion of Marcus Aurelius) that it is necessary to turn to our inner daimonion or, in Smith’s words, the »demigod within the breast«65 to moderate our feelings and thus practice self-command. More precisely, Smith echoes Shaftesbury’s explication that for this purpose, a division of self is necessary: »When I endeavour to examine my own conduct«, he writes in his TMS, »I divide myself, as it were, into two persons«.66 Secondly, and this almost goes without saying, both authors are vehemently opposed to the egoist theories of Hobbes and Mandeville. As shown earlier, Shaftesbury as well as Smith believe mankind to be naturally sociable and capable of acting disinterestedly, a claim shared also by Hutcheson, Hume, Lord Kames and many other eighteenth-century moralists. The first of the above points is stressed equally by Marshall, Otteson and Redding, but only the former two are aware of the second issue, whereas Redding misconstrues Smith’s as a selfish theory.67 Most recently, Douglas Den Uyl has explored Smith’s specific relation to Shaftesbury at greater length and thus taken the debate to a new level. Den Uyl shows that systematically, the two philosophers differ on a significant number of points: for Shaftesbury, the locus of Stoic self-improvement is the understanding, whereas for Smith it is the sentiments; for the former, exercising the self is the precondition for leading a good social life, whereas the latter emphasises that it is by imagining our relation to others that we improve our self; the former’s stress is on activity and ardent exercise, the latter’s on tranquility and passive self-command. Put differently, while Shaftesbury can count as a docile disciple of the ancients, Smith carries Stoicism into modernity and makes it more accessible to the everyday man.68 Den Uyl’s argument is all sound and true, yet he does not reconsider what in an earlier article he had called the ›proximity thesis‹.69 Smith’s harsh and disproportionate critique of Shaftesbury in his Edinburgh lectures – which ranges from a censure of his style to ad hominem attacks – immediately strikes the eye.70 In his attempt to explain this phenomenon, Den Uyl has suggested that Smith’s apparent need to differentiate himself from Shaftesbury may derive from the closeness of their thoughts and the indebtedness the former felt he owed to the latter. My emphasis is that this holds true not only for Smith’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, but also (and even more so) his ethical theory developed in TMS. Despite the seminal differences between the two men’s philosophies which Den Uyl has convincingly pointed out, Smith obviously felt that some of his positions were anticipated by the author of Characteristicks. _____________ 65 66 67 68 69 70

Ibid., 3.2.32. Ibid., 3.1.6. Compare Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 60. Cf. Marshall (1986), 167–192, Redding (1992), and Otteson (2008). Cf. Den Uyl (2018). Cf. Den Uyl (2011), esp. 212. Cf. Smith, Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, esp. 58–59.

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Above all, this is indicated by the fact that Smith cites a series of key Shaftesburian phrases in his ethical theory. The editors of the Glasgow edition have noted that it is characteristic of Smith to unconsciously repeat phrases from the work of fellow writers whom he could connect to.71 Apart from the phrase »bringing the case home to ourselves« already mentioned, he seems to have assimilated two Shaftesburian metaphors from the essay »Soliloquy«. The first concerns the operation of selfdivision that scholars have identified as a motif both moral philosophies share. When Smith says that our dividing ourselves into two persons – thus becoming both the person sympathised with and the sympathiser – provides us with a »lookingglass«,72 he most likely cites Shaftesbury’s expression »vocal Looking-Glass«.73 That Smith omits the attribute »vocal« points to the crucial difference between the two conceptions. In TMS, a command of the self emerges from our viewing ourselves in the looking-glass of a collective subject, thus anticipating the »censure of the world«.74 Smith stresses that we cannot have a conception of what is either beautiful or proper without having experienced the sympathy and approbation of others. The first ideas of propriety as well as beauty are drawn from the observation of how we are perceived by the world.75 Once we internalise the perspective of our spectators, we carry a handy looking-glass to determine our conduct. Smith’s is thus a sentimental self-division in the medium of sight. By contrast, Shaftesbury’s self-division is imagined as a rational one between ourselves and our demon companion for the purpose of soliloquy, and hence in the medium of sound. In conversing with this herald of reason, we come to recognise our innate virtue. Talking reason to ourselves, we perceive as in a looking-glass how to »personate our-selves, in the plainest manner.«76 In other words, it is by this means that we embrace our own true self, which is in best accordance with nature. In summary, the looking glass is put to very different purposes in Shaftesbury and Smith, the apparent similarity is only a superficial one.77 The second Smithian metaphor which echoes Shaftesbury is that of the watchmaker’s shop. In »Soliloquy«, the third Earl argues that a person entering this shop and asking which materials were used to make a certain watch, how it has received its colour et cetera, »wou’d come short of any Understanding in the real Nature of the Instrument.«78 Shaftesbury thus illustrates a teleological motif, the ultimate end of _____________ 71

72 73 74 75 76 77

78

Cf. the »Introduction«, 11, to the Glasgow Edition of TMS. The editors here refer to Mandeville, Rousseau, Hume and the Stoics. Shaftesbury needs to be included in this list, as has been noted by Marshall (1986), 176–177. Smith, TMS, 3.1.5. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 64. Smith, TMS, 3.1.5. Cf. ibid., 3.1.4. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 64. Thus, I cannot agree with the claim made by Marshall (1986), 176–178, that both Shaftesbury and Smith elaborate on a theatrical notion of self. Marshall has in this point been proven wrong by Den Uyl (1998), 280–287. Shaftesbury, »Soliloquy«, 214.

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reason, the telos of logos. A philosopher who studies human nature only empirically and gains no noetic apprehension of what it is to be a man remains just as ignorant as the person in the watchmaker’s shop, Shaftesbury contends. It seems that the empiricist Smith felt impelled to answer this provocation. Like his predecessor, he identifies the »wheels of the watch« with mankind and the »watch-maker« with the deity that created all things.79 Yet his censure is that it were mere blasphemy to assume the pose of the watch-maker and believe that our »enlightened reason«80 can conceive the true ends of the watch’s workings. This allusion and secret critique, which to my knowledge has hitherto gone unnoticed, is reason enough to have a closer look at Den Uyl’s ›proximity thesis‹. Could it be due to a too close proximity of their philosophies that, in the concluding seventh part of TMS, Smith harshly condemns the third Earl’s Characteristicks, although he readily praises Hutcheson, who in his turn had applauded Shaftesbury?81 In the final chapters of his work, Smith’s aim is to give a history of moral philosophy and point out in which respects his system advances or departs from earlier theories. Apart from what he calls licentious systems, he determines three distinct traditions: those systems for which virtue consists in propriety, those that hinge on prudence, and those that believe in an identity of benevolence and virtue. The second class of theorists Smith associates with Epicureanism. He proclaims that »[t]his system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that which I have been endeavouring to establish.«82 Similarly, he distances himself from the systems of benevolence, by which he understands above all the philosophies of the Cambridge Platonists.83 According to Smith, these can account only for a small share of our moral sentiments, namely those directed towards benevolent action. To his mind, they cannot sufficiently explain why we approve of temperance.84 Though the theory of Hutcheson falls in this category also, the father of the Scottish Enlightenment is exempted from more severe criticism. Rather, Hutcheson is said to have been »the most acute, the most distinct, the most philosophical, and what is of the greatest consequence of all, the soberest and most judicious«85 of philosophers. The first class of theorists, which Smith sympathises with the most, includes Plato, Aristotle and above all the Stoics, who are discussed in some detail. As modern representatives of this line of tradition, Smith mentions Samuel Clarke, William Wollaston and Lord Shaftesbury. Platonic philosophy, the author claims, »coincides in every respect with what we _____________ 79 80 81 82 83 84

85

Smith, TMS, 2.2.3.5. Ibid. Cf. ibid., 7.2.3.3 and compare Hutcheson, Inquiry, 12. Smith, TMS, 7.2.2.13. For Smith, Cambridge Platonism is associated with the names John Smith, Henry More and Ralph Cudworth, cf. ibid., 7.2.3.3. Cf. ibid., 7.2.3.15. The Cambridge Platonists, along with Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, might have argued that the moral sense responds also to an object such as temperance, since this is only a derivative or species of human benevolence: to moderate our appetites is nothing but a benevolence towards our own self, i.e. a disinterested natural affection that ensures our preservation. Ibid., 7.2.3.3.

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have said above«,86 thus assimilating it into his sentimentalist account. He simply assumes that Plato would agree with his intersubjective definition of virtue as »the proper object of praise and approbation«.87 In the same manner, Smith’s claim that it is not merely the knowledge, but the habit of propriety that constitutes virtue, is read into the thought of Aristotle. The empiricist’s interpretation of Stoic philosophy, which is likewise considered congenial to TMS, proves just as selective: the state of autarky advocated by the Stoics, in which the wise man finds perfect tranquillity because he is conscious only of his virtue, is rendered in Smithian intersubjective terms as »the assurance that he possessed the love and esteem of every intelligent and impartial spectator.«88 Whereas Smith strongly (and perhaps unjustly) emphasises the similarities between the ancient moral theories and his own, he harshly dismisses the philosophies of his more immediate predecessors Shaftesbury, Clarke and Wollaston, which he calls »inaccurate descriptions of the same fundamental idea.«89 By associating Shaftesbury with two moral rationalists (who had already met with much reproof in the works of Hutcheson and Hume),90 Smith outright ignores Shaftesbury’s influential conception of the moral sense as a sympathy with mankind: None of those systems either give, or even pretend to give, any precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or propriety of affection can be ascertained or judged of. That precise and distinct measure can be found nowhere but in the sympathetic feelings of the impartial and well-informed spectator.91

Smith asserts the innovative character of his concept of the sympathising impartial spectator and omits that Shaftesbury addressed the question of moral sentiments in his Characteristicks. To my mind, the reason for his doing so is the too great proximity between the two men’s understanding of merit. Generally speaking, their perspectives differ in that Shaftesbury focusses on virtue as a meaningful self-relation which entails a rational compliance to the suggestions of the moral sense, whereas Smith is more concerned with merit, i.e. that which intersubjective sympathies discern as praiseworthy in the eyes of an impartial spectator. However, for the second edition of his »Inquiry« published in his magnum opus Characteristicks, Shaftesbury adds a number of significant passages that discuss the interpersonal dimension of ethical feelings. These additions are advertised by a change in title: Shaftesbury rewords »An Inquiry concerning Virtue« into »An Inquiry concerning Virtue, or Merit«. The most notable amendment is that the author introduces the metaphor of a moral spectator or auditor who discerns the merit and demerit of others:

_____________ 86 87 88 89 90 91

Ibid., 7.2.1.11. Ibid. Ibid., 7.2.1.28. Ibid., 7.2.1.48. Cf. Hutcheson, Essay, 155–160, and Hume, THN, 1.3.3.5 (on Clarke), 3.1.1.15n (on Wollaston). Smith, TMS, 7.2.1.49.

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THE MIND, which is Spectator or Auditor of other minds, cannot be without its Eye and Ear; so as to discern Proportion, distinguish Sound, and scan each Sentiment or Thought that comes before it. It can let nothing escape its Censure.92

Certainly, the figure of the spectator is omnipresent in early eighteenth century thought. On this account alone, Shaftesbury’s reader Smith could not have felt provoked. More specifically, however, the revised version of the »Inquiry« develops the concept of merit from observations on the theatre. In this respect, Shaftesbury’s argument indeed closely resembles that of Smith. When attending a tragedy performed at the playhouse, Shaftesbury reasons, We find by ourselves, that the moving our Passions in this mournful way, the engaging them in behalf of Merit and Worth, and the exerting whatever we have of social Affection, and human Sympathy, is of the highest Delight, and affords a greater Enjoyment in the way of Thought and Sentiment, than any thing besides in a way of Sense and common Appetite.93

By referring to the theatre, the author highlights that sympathies »carry a real Enjoyment above that of the sensual kind« and that the (propositional) imagination, when engaged on behalf of meritorious characters, affords mental pleasures which originate in human sympathy.94 Put differently, the sympathetic imagination is at work here. The author thus concludes That the EFFECTS of Love or kind Affection in a way of mental Pleasure are »An Enjoyment of Good by Communication. A receiving it, as it were, by Reflection, or by way of Participation in the Good of others.« And »A pleasing Consciousneß of the actual Love, merited Esteem or Approbation of others.«95

In other words, when we as spectators of a tragedy behold one character acting kindly towards a second, we participate sympathetically in the pleasure given as well as in the approbation thereupon returned. This is the structure of triadic sympathy in a nutshell. Certainly, unlike Smith, Shaftesbury does not claim that this is a sufficient means of discerning virtue. As shown above, Shaftesbury’s essay »The Moralists« is a serious provocation to sentimentalist ethics. It explicitly refutes that the sympathetic imagination, which Smith’s theory depends on, can sufficiently determine virtue from vice.96 By both anticipating and refuting Smith, Shaftesbury has earned himself the resentment of the most eminent philosopher of sympathy in the eighteenth century, or so it appears. Though strongly indebted to Shaftesbury, Hutcheson and Hume, Smith’s philosophy of sympathy is nonetheless highly innovative, if only because it comments on how emotions are caused by fiction. Going beyond what his predecessors had to say about the subject, Smith ascertains that the sympathetic imagination, by which _____________ 92 93 94 95 96

Shaftesbury, »Inquiry«, 66–68. Ibid., 192–194. Ibid., 192. Ibid., 194. Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 46–48.

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we effectively eradicate the consciousness of our present perceptions and propose ourselves acting the part of another, is premised on a narrative ordering of causal relations. In consequence, that very means which allows us to determine the propriety and merit of actions in the moral world also gives rise to sympathies with fictional characters. The role of fellow-feeling in our experience of reading was thus explained in intersubjective terms for the first time. Subsequently, Smith’s poetics of sympathy found echoes in mid and late eighteenth-century literary criticism.

Imaginative Expansions of Sympathy in Ideal Presence: Lord Kames on Sympathetic Reading and Writing Perhaps the most elaborate sentimentalist poetics was authored by Henry Home, Lord Kames. Drawing on empirical observations of how the human mind is affected by works of literature, his treatise Elements of Criticism published in two bulky volumes in 1762 seeks to systematically establish rules of literary composition. Notably, Kames addressed his poetological reflections not to the writer, but to the critic. His seminal book aims to teach the art of criticism and thus contributed greatly to the development of English Literature as an academic discipline.97 Though widely popular during his lifetime, Kames’ Elements have received only little attention from modern literary scholars and, if so, the work has been regarded either within a pre-history of Romanticism or in its relation to more prominent texts from this field such as Samuel Johnson’s »Preface to Shakespeare«.98 However, Elements is an original work in its own right and, rather distinctively, a brainchild of the Scottish Enlightenment. Its author Kames was a profound reader and disciple of Francis Hutcheson, he associated with David Hume and encouraged as well as sponsored Adam Smith’s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. It was within this specific cultural context that Kames’ inventive theory of the sympathetic imagination emerged. Like his fellow sentimentalist Smith, Kames regarded literary criticism and moral philosophy as two sides of the same coin. His Elements opens with the claim that aesthetic pleasures, which occupy a middling place between the corporeal sensations and the exalted ones of morality or religion, prepare the mind for the latter. Thus, »a taste in the fine arts goes hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is nearly allied.«99 Conversely, Kames’ ethical theory titled Essays on the Principles of Mo_____________ 97

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In the same year that Elements of Criticism was published, Kames’ protégé Hugh Blair was appointed first chair of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres at Edinburgh University. For a good account of how Kames contributed to the rise of English as an academic subject of study, cf. Rhodes (2004), 221– 226. Ross (1972), 275, read Kames as anticipating Samuel Coleridge’s theory of the imagination and, 278–279, as pre-empting positions of the Enlightenment critic Samuel Johnson. Schwalm (2015), though she too has insisted on a (Proto-)Romantic dimension of Kames’ theory of literature, acknowledges the systematic differences between Johnson and Kames. Kames, Elements, 14.

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rality and Natural Religion, which appeared in print roughly a decade earlier, begins with an exploration of the effects that tragedy produces on the mind of the theatregoer. Like Smith, Kames acknowledges the position of the theatrical spectator as morally relevant. However, the moral epistemology he develops from his poetological reflections varies in significant respects from that of his protégé. Kames’ point of departure in Essays is one of the acutest paradoxes in eighteenth-century poetics, namely that painful objects, when represented in the fine arts, are pleasurable.100 In the introductory essay, titled »Our Attachment to Objects of Distress«, he observes that emotions raised in the spectator of a tragedy are attended by a secondary feeling either of affection or aversion.101 The distress of the characters, though painful in itself, inspires a friendly sympathy and is thus altogether pleasurable. Such fellow-feeling immediately gives rise to a benevolent desire to relieve the sufferer.102 Once the dramatic performance has ended, this desire, when gratified in the moral world, renders the benefactor susceptible of a fourth and pleasurable internal sensation, namely an ethical feeling that approves of his own good will: When we consider our own character and actions in a reflex view, we cannot help approving this tenderness and sympathy in our nature. We are pleased with ourselves for being so constituted: we are conscious of inward merit; and this is a continual source of satisfaction.103

Kames is sure to assert that this concomitant reflected internal or moral sense cannot be the original motive of benevolence. It comes into view only »by a reflex act« and can be but an additional incentive, whereas benevolent desires »operate by direct impulse«.104 The general sympathising and good nature of mankind, Kames concludes, is evident from the fact that we are drawn to theatrical representations of painful objects and thus experience a pressing concern for the welfare of our fellows. However, Kames does not render the theatre the master trope of his ethical theory to thus cast the spotlight on intersubjective sympathies between actors and spectators, as Smith had done. His moral philosophy avoids ›entering the theatre‹. In the third and definitive edition of Essays published in 1779,105 its author strongly opposes the Smithian supposition that human morality can be explained through sympathetic imaginations alone. For Kames, virtue is a natural given and so it does not only come into being by its intersubjective performance. He refutes that the theatri_____________ 100 Kames is writing against Jean-Baptiste Dubos’ explanation of the phenomenon. In his 1719 work of criticism, Réflexions critiques sur la poésie et sur la peinture, Dubos accredits our delight in tragedy to a horror of inaction. The solution of Kames, namely that it is necessary to differentiate between a primary sensation of pain communicated by sympathy and a secondary sentiment of either affection or aversion, is echoed by Adam Smith, cf. my discussion in this chapter, 88–89. 101 Cf. Kames, Essays, 14. 102 Cf. ibid., 15. 103 Ibid., 17. 104 Ibid., 15. 105 Adam Smith’s TMS was published in 1759, eight years after Essays first appeared in print. The third and final edition of Kames’ work includes a critique of Smith.

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cal relation between sympathising players and onlookers is what a sentimentalist ethics necessarily boils down to. »The sympathetic system«, Kames finds, »may pretend to account for my sentiments regarding others; but my sentiments regarding myself are entirely left out.«106 In other words, he asserts that moral self-evaluation cannot be reduced to the anticipation of the approving sympathies of a third party. The ›theatricality‹ of social relations does not sufficiently explain why it is that, when we are fully at home with ourselves, we are sensible of notions of duty, obligation, ought or should.107 Kames thus distinguishes between the secondary virtues benevolence and generosity which, as they are frequently sympathised with, »are left upon the general footing of approbatory pleasure«,108 and the primary virtues justice, faith and truth that more immediately »put us under a necessity of performance«,109 though they do not necessarily meet with the sympathy of others. The former are encouraged by the approbation we receive from our fellows, whereas the latter are enforced by the moral sense, i.e. the looming punishment of a bad conscience. This is no small transformation of Moral Sentimentalism. Firstly, Kames states that the moral sense, which responds to the primary virtues, cannot be resolved into a triadic or ›theatrical‹ relation of sympathies. More so than his contemporaries Hume and Smith, he is still very much concerned with the ›remnants‹ of innatism and thus asserts the existence of a connate internal sense of morality which, as he proves at length in an argument reminiscent of Francis Hutcheson, is structured exactly like the internal sense of beauty.110 Secondly, Kames finds that the new intersubjectivist moral philosophy which originates with Hume and Smith can nonetheless adequately describe our approbation of benevolence. Finally, rather than trusting the discernment of virtue and vice to moral pleasure alone, as Hutcheson had done, Kames argues that we are furnished with a moral sense which positively tells us what is morally wrong. His emphasis is that neither the imagination of an impartial third’s sympathy nor the absence of moral pleasure can sufficiently account for our moral ideas of duty or obligation. To elaborate on this further, the author turns to two earlier eighteenth-century British moralists. Kames acknowledges that Lord Shaftesbury, whom he thus favourably contrasts with the Scottish sentimentalists, »approaches to an explanation of duty«:111 supposing that we are impelled to subject our self-interest to public interest, the author of Characteristicks conceived of a reflected internal sense of right and wrong. Hence Kames reinterprets Shaftesbury’s differentiation between virtue and goodness in that he distinguishes duty, i.e. that which is a necessary contribution to general welfare, from mere benevolence, namely a tendency _____________ 106 Kames, Essays, 73. 107 He proves this fact through a linguistic argument, cf. ibid., 33: »indeed the words which are to be found in all languages, and which are perfectly understood in the communication of sentiments, are an evident demonstration of it.« 108 Ibid., 33. 109 Ibid. 110 Cf. ibid., 26–30. 111 Ibid., 30.

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to support the good of others.112 Moreover, Kames assimilates Joseph Butler’s notion of conscience into his system. He explicitly interprets it in its relation to the moral sense and vice versa, thus appropriating the former concept into his ethics.113 The repercussions are significant: explicating Butler, Kames ascertains that the divine will is the true source of moral sensation. It follows that he does not, like Hutcheson or Shaftesbury, conceive of the latter as a sympathising with the body of mankind. Rather, he interprets the moral sense as »the voice of God within us« or, put differently, an »express revelation«.114 In summary, Kames indeed supplements his system with some insights from intersubjectivist philosophies of sympathy, yet he largely adheres to Hutcheson’s (and, to a lesser degree, Shaftesbury’s) moral sense theory, which he renders more normative by interpreting it in the light of Butler’s theological understanding of conscience. Though sympathy is thus less central to the moral epistemology of Kames, it is nonetheless of signal importance in his philosophical system. As a chapter by David Fate Norton points out, the best discussion of Kames’ ethical theory to date, the author of Essays is a moral sense philosopher who, though he generally adopts an empiricist approach, is nonetheless boldly »extending Hutcheson’s moral epistemology into the speculative or metaphysical domain.«115 For Kames, morality is founded on »the laws of nature« designed by providence, which his book seeks to establish in »[a]n attempt to restore it [morality, my note] to its original simplicity and authority«.116 A judge in the Scottish court of Session117 and ardent student of Cicero as well as the Roman Stoics, Kames was very much inclined towards the tradition of natural law. No doubt, it provides the framework for his philosophy.118 Kames wanted to look at this system anew from the perspective of empiricism and so he held that »the laws of nature may be defined to be, Rules of our conduct founded on natural principles approved by the moral sense, and enforced by natural rewards and punishments.«119 Certainly, this reassertion of a law-governed universe ordained by divine providence impacts _____________ 112 113 114 115

116 117

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Compare ch. 2 in this book, 37–38. For a detailed interpretation of this transformation, cf. Norton (1982), esp. 176. Kames, Essays, 34. Cf. Norton (1982), 174–191, here 189. Similarly, Lehmann (1971), 174, has suggested that in Kames there is »a somewhat disconcerting mixture of the empiricist and the speculative philosopher, of the ›a posteriorist‹ and the ›a priorist‹, of the Newtonian and the Aristotelian.« It appears that Kames, who was educated at home by a private tutor and never attended university, is not willing to swear allegiance to any one philosophical school. Ibid., 24. Ross (1972), 262–265, has argued that Kames’ Elements are deeply influenced by Scots Law in that they proceed systematically from one principle of the laws of criticism to the next. However, Kames did not call his work The Laws, nor even The Elements but very modestly Elements of Criticism. As he says towards the end of his »Introduction«, 19, he felt that – perhaps compared to his legal writing – the work was not sufficiently systematic and thus demanded for a »more humble title«. As Mary Moran puts it in her »Introduction« to Essays, ix, the aim of Kames was »to construct a moral science based on the principles of natural law.« For an account of his engagement with the ancient traditions, cf. Agnew (2008), 95–99, 126–129 and Rahmatian (2015), esp. 4, 120. Kames, Essays, 56.

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Kames’ concept of co-affectability. All parts of the normative cosmos, the philosopher argues, are wisely interconnected by sympathy. Law-governed nature accounts for the fellow-feeling that exists among human beings and, in consequence, the fact that we feel with tragic characters on the stage: [N]ature, which designed us for society, has linked us together in an intimate manner, by the sympathetic principle, which communicates the joy and sorrow of one to many. We partake the afflictions of our fellows: we grieve with them and for them; and, in many instances, their misfortunes affect us equally with our own. Let it not therefore appear surprising, that, instead of shunning objects of misery, we chuse to dwell upon them; for this is truly as natural as indulging grief for our own misfortunes. And it must be observed at the same time, that this is wisely ordered by providence: were the social affections mixed with any degree of aversion, even when we suffer under them, we should be inclined, upon the first notice of an object in distress, to drive it from our sight and mind, instead of affording relief.120

In the above passage, the term nature signifies a forming power (natura naturans) that is providentially governed by God and hence not just all created matter (natura naturata). Thus conceived, nature is held responsible for the design of Man and, more especially, his inclination to associate with his fellows. For Kames, a theatregoer’s fellow-feeling is indicative not so much of the intersubjectivity of morality, but a »sympathy in our nature«,121 a sympathy which necessarily connects all members of mankind in a cosmos governed by natural laws. Kamesian sympathy is then not simply »an eminent principle of action«,122 as William Lehmann has argued. In contrast to other moral sentimentalists, who regard sympathy as an exclusively intramental matter, Kames views it more traditionally as an indication of the tissue of the world. Nonetheless, sympathy is morally significant for Kames, albeit not in the sense of Hume or Smith. He argues that human beings are obliged to affirm the lex naturae and thus, among other things, they are required to embrace their sympathising with one another.123 These postulates are consequential to Kames’ empiricist explanation of our social passions. When he investigates how human sympathy surfaces in the subjective mind in his Essays, Kames is always fully aware of its natural and normative ground. His epistemological account of fellow-feeling is thus blatantly different from that of other Scottish moral philosophers. Certainly, not even Smith would positively deny that human beings are by their very nature in sympathy with one another. This original sociability is indeed a requisite for the sentimental society he has in mind. However, he was not convinced that such a social instinct is what (in the majority of cases) conveys the various passions from one mind to the next. He asserts that »we _____________ 120 121 122 123

Kames, Essays, 16–17. Ibid., 17. Lehmann (1971), 170. Cf. Kames, Essays, 58–59, where he defines six moral laws. The rule to act benevolently towards our fellows, with whom we are in sympathy, is ranked in last place after the laws of restraint, duty, veracity, fidelity and gratitude.

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have no immediate experience of what other men feel« and so consequently, »we can form no idea of the manner in which they are affected but by conceiving what we ourselves would feel in the like situation.«124 Kames begins his critical discussion of TMS in that he quotes this exact passage and re-examines Smith’s favoured example of our sympathy for a person suffering on the rack. He casts into doubt that the »play of imagination«, which the system of Smith relies on, will in fact convey the affections of our suffering fellow. Instead, Kames finds with Jean-Jacques Rousseau, »in putting ourselves in place of the person who suffers, we feel the pleasure of not suffering as he does.«125 In other words, our propositional imagination cannot be the means through which we sympathise with the poor being whose torture we are an eyewitness of. Rather, the author claims, our immediate sensations allow us to do so. According to Kames, who has a bigger picture in view, sympathy is not simply an imagination of the subjective mind, but a »natural principle inherent in all human beings«126 due to which passions are communicated from one to the other. This is achieved in the following manner: First, every passion stamps on the countenance certain signs appropriated to it by nature. Next, being taught by nature to connect every external sign with the passion that caused it; we can read in every man’s countenance his internal emotions. Third, certain emotions, thus made known, raise in beholders the passion of sympathy.127

Once again, Kames’ argument is reminiscent of Francis Hutcheson, who had given a semiotic explanation of sympathy in the second treatise of his Inquiry.128 However, the emphasis here is not on the necessary association of ideas, our connecting the expressions we perceive in others with what we have felt ourselves, but on the normativity of nature. Kames stresses that what sympathy depends on is a natural, universal and immutable language of the body which elicits immediate responses. Sensation plays the pivotal role when we sympathise and, more specifically, it is the sense of vision through which the universal principle of sympathy operates on individual minds: »I appeal to any man who has seen a person on the rack,« Kames says, »whether his sympathy was not raised by sight merely, without any effort of the imagination.«129 Our sympathising with others comes to pass by a visual perception and is thus a passive event, not an action performed by the fancy.130 This Kamesian argument is continued in Elements of Criticism. Here Kames accordingly claims that »the strongest branch of sympathy […] is raised by means of sight«.131 Since sympathy is crucial to his exploration of aesthetic experience, he _____________ 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131

Smith, TMS, 1.1.1.2. Kames, Essays, 71. Ibid., 72. Ibid. Cf. Hutcheson, Inquiry, 160–61, and compare Hume, THN, 2.1.11.3. Kames, Essays, 72 This view I share with Schwalm (2015), 164–165. Kames, Elements, 310.

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devotes a full-length chapter to the external marks of our emotions and passions.132 Every category or class of human sensations is said to be immutably related to specific facial and bodily expressions. This »universal language«, Kames asserts, will »open a direct avenue to the heart« of every spectator.133 Knowledge of the semiotic system of the passions cannot lie in the external sensation itself, nor is it subject to experience and thus the forming of associations. Rather, it is by way of an innate and internal sense that we understand the import of bodily signs: »man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty that lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions.«134 Thus, when an impassioned body is in our presence, Smith’s sympathetic propositional imagination is quite unnecessary. It is not our imagining ourselves in the place of the other, but our witnessing the signs of his emotional state that give rise to our sympathy. Fellow-feeling as it appears in the subjective mind is then first of all a connatural, internal sensation that immediately responds to the spectacle of passion. Though not ›theatrical‹ in a Smithian sense, the conception of human sympathy in Elements is strictly spectatorial. As a result, Kames elevates drama above epic or prose. He observes that »what we see makes a deeper impression than what we learn from others.«135 Accordingly, Kames most fully explains the moral significance of engaging with fictional worlds in his discussion of the theatre. He does so by rewriting the Aristotelian account of tragedy, which hinges on eleos and phobos, from the perspective of his Moral Sentimentalism. The notion of phobos is conceived as a kind of moral terror arising in the spectator when he becomes conscious that he is guilty of the same faults as the principal character, who is heading for catastrophe.136 Kames argues that it is not primarily the dreadful outcome that scares the theatregoer. When the dramatic personages refrain from doing their duty and thus violate justice, faith or truth, the spectator becomes mindful of his own bad conscience and so the demands of virtue are enforced. Similarly, Kames interprets eleos, which is usually translated as pity, with sympathy in his sense of the word: »Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital.«137 Again, sympathy is a natural given for Kames and so it does not need to be learned in frequent visits to the theatre. What good is it then, morally speaking, to feel for characters of the stage? Kames answers that sympathies with fictional others have the tendency to inspire us with a desire to act benevolently, which may be redirected towards the moral world. Feeling with the misfortunes of dramatic personages, the author remarks also in his Essays, naturally gives rise to a benevolent desire to relief.138 This desire cannot immediately be gratified as the object of our affection is a creature of the fictional _____________ 132 133 134 135 136 137 138

Cf. ibid., 296–310. Ibid., 301. Ibid., 305. Ibid., 649. Cf. ibid., 653. Ibid., 654. Cf. Kames, Essays, 15.

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world. Similarly, Kames observes in Elements that when we are affected by benevolent deeds represented on the stage, our sympathy with the beneficiary gives rise to »a vague feeling of gratitude without an object«,139 as the benefactor again is fictional and thus out of our grasp. Subsequently, this sympathetic emotion, which »disposes the spectator […] to acts of gratitude«,140 is redirected. As we exit the playhouse, we are in search of an object that will gratify our desire to conduct ourselves benevolently. Kames calls this »the sympathetic emotion of virtue«.141 Witnessing the practice of benevolence, even if it is on the dramatic stage only, encourages us to act according to the benevolent disposition which nature has furnished us with. Kames finds that all tragedies of merit move the audience in this manner and so enliven the secondary virtues benevolence and generosity. However, only some will also convey moral terror, thus enforcing the primary virtues of justice, faith and truth. This causes Kames to distinguish between pathetic and moral tragedies. The latter excite both sympathy and moral sensations in us, whereas the former make us sympathise with the misfortunes of the virtuous only. These misfortunes must be temporary and not too serious, or else they would unduly upset the spectators: Kames reasons with himself »whether the conclusion ought not always to be fortunate.«142 In any case, the Kamesian auditorium is home to no unfeeling hypocrites of the Smithian type, who conceal their tears. These spectators may express their sympathy for any distress whatsoever, just as nature dictates. The manner in which spectators are moved by dramatic performances is thus accounted for, but how readers of fiction can sympathise with the fate of feigned personages, without visually perceiving the marks of their passions, remains a mystery. Kames attempts to answer this question with his concept of ideal presence. No doubt, the fellow-feeling of readers requires the agency of the sympathetic imagination. However, contrary to Smith, Kames finds that sympathies for fictional characters are not sufficiently explained by our proposing ourselves in a situation that lies beyond our experience. Though it is an important first step that »I conceive myself to be a spectator«143 of the feigned action by way of propositional fancy, only sensory imaginations that approach reality will ultimately give rise to sympathy. When we _____________ 139 Kames, Elements, 49. 140 Ibid. 141 Harkin (2003), 180–186, calling this process an emulation, has labelled Kames’ theory elitist and claimed that it wishes to pressure lower-class audiences to imitate the moral and aesthetic standards of the nobility. However, as Helga Schwalm has emphasised in our joint talk »›We feel a gradual dilatation or expansion of the mind‹: Configurations of Expansion and the Poetics of Sympathy in Lord Kames’ Elements of Criticism« at the BSECS Conference in January 2016, the principle behind such ›emulation‹ is sympathy; and sympathy for Kames, as I have shown above, is not grounded in intersubjectivity, but providentially governed nature. It follows that to sympathise with virtue is not the same as to seek conformity with arbitrary conventions associated with some social group. Rather, the moral desire thus formed exactly corresponds to the dictates of natural law. 142 Kames, Elements, 655. Certainly, the generic hybrid that answers to this description, a tear-jerker which depicts small distresses and concludes with the felicity of perfectly virtuous characters, could go by the name of sentimental comedy. 143 Ibid., 68.

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read or remember affectively, it is necessary that we »have a perception […] similar to what a real spectator hath.«144 For Kames, sentimental reading as well as affective memory is a quasi-visual experience in which we perceive the fictional or past world as existing before our eyes. To explain such ideal presence more fully, the philosopher turns to the first comprehensive empiricist study of the human psyche, Observations on Man, his Frame, his Duty, and his Expectations (1749). Kames takes recourse to David Hartley’s definition of the so-called sensible idea as a sensation’s »perceptible Effect, Trace, or Vestige«145 that persists in the mind after the viewed object has vanished from our sight.146 Kames very accurately reproduces Hartley’s conception: After attentively surveying a fine statue, I close my eyes. What follows? The same object continues, without any difference but that it is less distinct than formerly. This indistinct secondary perception of an object, is termed an idea.147

Such vestiges of sensation, Kames elaborates, can be recalled to the mind whenever our propositional imagination transports us to a scene of the past. Our memory is then very lively and approaches reality. By contrast, if we coldly repeat to us the facts and circumstances of bygone events as arranged by our understanding, the things experienced are »not figured as in our view, nor any image formed: we retain the consciousness of our present situation«.148 This is what Kames terms reflective remembrance. A vivid recollection requires that we enter »a waking dream«149 which makes us perceive and feel exactly as we have once felt. The respective sensible ideas need to be recalled to the mind. In other words, both propositional and sensory imaginations are crucial to the ideal presence of things past. To truly reminisce about our yesterdays, we must, firstly, assume a former attitude so as to become oblivious of our present perceptions and, secondly, be enticed into a kind of reverie by which we are »imperceptibly converted into a spectator« who has (quasi-)visual perceptions.150 Since Kames consistently privileges the sense of sight, he supposes that remembering things effectively boils down to spectatorship in idea. Transporting ourselves in fancy to the spot where we caught sight of a tree some time ago, he argues, allows us to have a (quasi-)visual sensation of that exact same tree.151 This however requires _____________ 144 Ibid. 145 Cf. David Hartley, Observations on Man, his Frame, his Duty, and his Expectations, I, 57. 146 Hartley thus puts it a little different than Hume, for whom ideas are ›copies‹ of impressions. Here, the content of a sensation is not fully ›copied‹ into the mind. Rather, only an incomplete or fuzzy image of the thing perceived is retained. 147 Kames, Elements, 733. 148 Ibid., 67. 149 Ibid., 68. As Ross (1972), 272, has argued, this phrase with which Kames describes ideal presence reappears in a similar manner in »Ode to a Nightingale« by John Keats. On the Romantic sympathetic imagination, cf. ch. 1 in this book, 1–2, and my discussion below. 150 Kames, Elements, 67. Remarkably, this notion somewhat resembles Marcel Proust’s understanding of mémoire involontaire. 151 Rothstein (1976), 314, may be correct that ideal presence is not as exclusively visual as the terminology suggests and that the other external senses can come in as well. However, for Kames, visual and auditory perception (in that order) are ethically privileged in that they are nearer related to the sen-

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that the idea or vestige of the original perception is uppermost in the train of our thoughts. Only then, it will feel like we had just closed our eyes to the object and so »a thing recalled to the mind […] is perceived as in our view, and consequently as existing at present.«152 By analogy, Kames argues, this notion of ideal presence explains the psychological state of a reader of realist fiction who has suspended disbelief. Exactly like the man who remembers, he must become unconscious of what passes in his sight and hearing to perceive the fictional events as ideally present to his eye.153 Eric Rothstein has argued that the sensible ideas which are necessary for a reader’s ›waking dream‹ are supplied chiefly by his own imagination or, more accurately, his memory. Supposedly, Kames’ ideal presence is based upon the fact that our remembrances, though subjective, will more or less correspond to those of our fellows: »the doctrine of ideal presence urges the reader toward deeply personal and yet fundamentally shared imaginative expansions, which create a bond of sympathy«.154 Rothstein concludes that Kames’ concept of ideal presence is reminiscent of how certain French and English critics of the time explained aesthetic responses to poetry and painting. The theories of this selection of writers, he supposes, pivot on the suggestive power of the unfinished or non finito: the recipient is expected to provide vestiges of sensation from the stores of his own imagination when something is left unstated.155 This however is not what Kames says when he discusses ideal presence. Indeed, given his spectatorial understanding of sympathy, he could not have said anything of the kind. Rather than relying on the suggestiveness of the non finito, works of fiction that successfully transport readers into a ›waking dream‹ in the Kamesian sense exactly represent human sense experience in language. Kames is strong on the point that »a cursory narrative« will »leave a vacuity in the mind« and thus »solicits reflection«.156 Thus, an ›unfinished‹ or undetailed work of prose does not allow us to behold the fictional world in ideal presence. To make us oblivious of the real presence of our surroundings and thus fully engage us, a narrative must afford us with a »complete image«.157 Unlike Smith, who argued that the sympathetic imagination of us readers requires a discursive representation of causes and effects, Kames finds it is necessary to give an experience-like description of the fictional world to engage our fancy on _____________

152 153 154 155

156 157

sations of morality, cf. Elements, 12–13, esp. 13: »the transition is sweet and easy, from corporeal pleasures to the more refined pleasures of sense; and no less so, from these to the exalted pleasures of morality and religion.« Kames, Elements, 67. Cf. ibid., 69. Rothstein (1976), 313. It seems to me that interpreting Kamesian ideal presence in the light of works by Denis Diderot, Roger de Piles and others, which are set in entirely different contexts, transforms it to no small degree and thus contributes little to the understanding of Elements. Kames’ book, which is more specifically a work of the Scottish Enlightenment, conceives of ideal presence in sentimentalist terms, cf. my discussion below. Kames, Elements, 71. Ibid., 68.

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behalf of sympathy. When a literary work suggests a »dream of reality«158 after this manner, a comprehensive series of sensible ideas is conveyed to us and we are thus transformed into an ideal spectator: No person of reflection but must be sensible, that an incident makes a stronger impression on an eye-witness, than when heard at second hand. Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best avenue to the heart, represent every thing as passing in our sight; and, from readers or hearers, transform us as it were into spectators: a skilful writer conceals himself, and presents his personages: in a word, every thing becomes dramatic as much as possible.159

In Kames’ eyes, works of literature that fail to communicate a coherent structure of sensible ideas will lack ›dramatic‹ effect and so be blemished by a »want of truth«.160 Indeed, the chief characteristic of any moving narrative is that it exactly represents sense experiences. Its experientiality accounts for its affective appeal.161 Certainly, the literary realism of Kames is a sentimental one. First and foremost, his notion of ideal presence explains the workings of the sympathetic imagination. When the fancies of readers are thus sufficiently sensory and not propositional only, they will readily sympathise with fictional characters. In real presence, we feel with another because we visually perceive the facial and bodily expressions of his emotions. The quasiperception that a narrative of merit gives rise to in our minds has the same effect. When we are successfully transported into ideal presence, we fancy ourselves an eyewitness of impassioned faces and bodies in the fictional world. Only the spectacle of passion allows us to sympathise and it is because of this that fiction must be »dramatic as much as possible«.162 For Kames, anything short of a mimesis of visual sensation will fail to acquire our sympathy.163 Arguing against Smith, he finds that the mere diegesis of events will not move us. Since Kames’ understanding of sympathy is traditionalist rather than intersubjective, it is vitally important for him to ascertain that even a reader’s fellow-feeling is not a play of the imagination merely. The notion of ideal presence allows him to assert that sympathy with fiction links back to actual sensations and thus to law-governed _____________ 158 Ibid., 679. 159 Ibid., 633. 160 Ibid., 71. Kames demands of critics to ascertain whether or not a writer succeeds in crafting such structures of sensible ideas. These need to be properly interrelated and arranged in descending series, i.e. proceeding from causes to effects or from greater to lesser connections of resemblance, contrast and contiguity, cf. ibid. 21–31, esp. 26–27. Unsurprisingly, the Aristotelian concept of the unity of action is appropriated into Kames’ theory upon these same terms, cf. ibid., 670–673. 161 The Kamesian notion of ideal presence anticipates what narratologists today call experientiality. According to Monika Fludernik (1996), 9, this is the defining feature of (realist) narratives: their »quasimimetic evocation of ›real-life experience‹« builds on an appeal to ›natural‹ parameters of cognition. 162 Ibid., 633. Notably, Kames does not liken reader response to the aesthetic effects achieved by poetry and painting, as Rothstein (1976) supposed, but the appeal of drama. 163 Miles (1999) has suggested that Kamesian ideal presence is indicative of shifting attitudes towards visuality and preconfigures how the visual would surface in Gothic fiction. Indeed, the concept hinges on the mimesis of human sense experience and thus encourages all kinds of ›sensational‹ literature.

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nature. This alone renders it morally relevant. Though based on an epistemological error (its object is not really existent), sympathy for fictional characters is anchored in that greater one which exists among all members of mankind and naturally arises from the sight of passion. In conclusion, Kames argues that when the mind engages in linguistic representations of sense experience, the natural sympathy of real presence continues in sympathetic imagination. Upon this ground, the sympathies of readers are able to ›rebound‹ on the moral world exactly like the sympathetic emotions of virtue inspired by drama: »fiction, by means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others.«164 As shown above, the principal aim of Elements is to establish rules of criticism from observations on the psyche of the reader or spectator. Yet Kames also speculates about what, respectively, goes on in the mind of writers. He finds that in order to make the audience sympathise by way of ideal presence, authors have to take care that, firstly, the passion which is represented corresponds to the character in question, secondly, the sentiments accredited to this character are such as naturally arise from his passion and, thirdly, the chosen language fits the sentiments.165 All this they cannot achieve without self-identifying with the personages they create, »because none but those who actually feel a passion, can represent it to the life.«166 But how can a writer be in sympathy with the creatures of his own fancy? Ideal presence, which allows readers to sympathise with the characters whose spectacle of passion they quasi-visually perceive, will not do the trick.167 Kames warns authors of drama or fiction not to commit the spectator fallacy. To produce works of merit, they must avoid conceiving fictional personages by looking at them from the perspective of a mere bystander: But a very humble flight of imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator; so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight and hearing. In that figured situation, being led naturally to write like a spectator, he entertains his readers with his own reflections, with cool description, and florid declamation; instead of making them an eye-witness, as it were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion.168

To enter into ideal presence as readers do when they are »lulled into a dream of reality«,169 is counterproductive for the writer. Before the passions are not properly conceived, this is no way to convey them to the mind. Thus for Kames, the sympathetic _____________ 164 Kames, Elements, 77. Provided that a narrative successfully establishes ideal presence, the sympathetic emotion of virtue takes hold in the mind of the reader exactly like it does in that of the theatregoer. 165 Cf. ibid., 311. 166 Ibid., 313. 167 The view that ideal presence is crucial to the creative imagination of the poet is held by Schwalm (2015), 172. She suggests that Wordsworth’s account of poetic invention may be read in terms of ideal presence. Though Kames seems to anticipate the Romantic understanding of sympathetic imagination, ideal presence is not the concept with which he does so, cf. my discussion below. 168 Kames, Elements, 313. 169 Ibid., 313–14.

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imagination of readers is much different from that of the writer. Whereas readers may rely on common sympathy to be sensible of a character’s passion, an author must depend on his uncommon sensibility when he contrives this passion in the first place: »To awake passion by an internal effort merely«, Kames asserts, »requires great sensibility«.170 To enter into the feelings of made up characters in order to have them act and speak as literary realism or (which comes down to the same) the reader’s ›dream of reality‹ demands, is a task not many can achieve. The »declamatory tragedies« of Pierre Corneille are thus unfavourably contrasted with Shakespearean drama, which supposedly is styled in »more natural language«.171 What precisely is this exquisite sensibility that William Shakespeare and others are credited with? A writer of genius who successfully enters into the characters of his making must assume not only the role of a spectating bystander, so as to form sensory imaginations, but propose his identity with the person concerned: In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the personage represented; which requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, annihilating himself, can thus become another person, need be in no pain about the sentiments that belong to the assumed character: these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as to his reader.172

At first glance, this explanation appears reminiscent of Smith’s account of sympathetic imagination. The author of TMS supposed that sympathising spectators ›become‹ their fellow to some extent when by imaginative propositions they assume his place in a certain situation. For Smith, this implied a moral evaluation of the other: by comparison with what we feel when we change places with our fellow in idea, his passion is determined as proper or improper. However, the case is very different here. Though likewise more propositional than sensory, this kind of sympathetic imagination does not serve any moral, but only aesthetic purposes. No comparison between self and other is at the bottom of such sympathy, no approbation or disapprobation takes place. Rather than merely fancying himself in the shoes of the character which he crafts, the writer of uncommon sensibility imagines being the wearer of those shoes. Unlike Smith’s sympathetic spectator, he fully annihilates his own self: he becomes oblivious not only of his present perceptions, as readers do who enter a ›waking dream‹, but of his natural dispositions also. To adequately represent his fictional others, the author must assume their identity by feeling into them and thus negate himself in the process. The propositions that such identificatory sympathy is based upon are numerous and vast. Hence the sympathetic imagination of artists who thus conceive of fictional passions is perhaps best characterised as creative. A writer of fiction imagines not a mere attitude of some fictional other, but constructs _____________ 170 Ibid., 313. 171 Ibid., 317n. This is a commonplace in the eighteenth century. On Kames’ Shakespeare criticism and its potential political and social motives, cf. Manolescu (2002). 172 Kames, Elements, 312.

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an entire character and indeed this character’s wider circumstances in a possible world.173 Remarkably, Kames’ account of an author’s sympathy with his creatures somewhat resembles what in Romantic criticism and poetry was conceived as sympathetic imagination. Indeed, John Keats made use of the same argument when he asserted that a poet must be furnished with negative capability.174 Thus, contrary to what has been said about it, Elements was as influential as it was original.175 Yet my emphasis is that this work is not only proto-Romantic, but rather, most distinctively, a product of the Scottish Enlightenment. This becomes evident also from the comparison of Elements with theories of Kames’ immediate successors. Perhaps the most prominent eighteenth-century thinker to pick up on the subject of creative sympathy was the Aberdeen professor Alexander Gerard, whose An Essay on Genius (1774) more exclusively examines the psyche of the talented writer.176 His work shows in an exemplary manner how towards the end of the century, the focus shifted from the sympathies of readers or spectators to the writer’s sympathetic imaginations.177 Gerard’s overall aim is to establish that genius belongs not to the faculty of the understanding, but the imagination.178 He further observes that genius is »comprehensive, regular, and active«,179 meaning that the imagination which is possessed of it, firstly, commands a vast store of ideas, secondly, easily relates the ideas in an uninterrupted train according to the principles of association and, finally, is an inexhaustible source of inspiration in that it pursues all possible views of an idea or situation. This latter aspect especially, an uncommonly active fancy which examines a vast amount of propositions, is an important prerequisite for feeling into and thus creating fictional characters. Yet such genius needs to conspire with »sensibility of heart«, which alone allows the poet, playwright or writer of fiction »to be actuated, at pleasure, by the passions which he would excite in others.«180 These two, genius and sensibility, are the basis of _____________ 173 Cf. Neil Van Leeuwen (2013/14), who argues that propositional imagination is aimed at attitudes, whereas creative fancy is constructive in a wider sense. The distinction is most certainly one of degree, not category. 174 Cf. ch. 1 in this book, 2, and 2n5. 175 In this respect, I side with the more recent article by Schwalm (2015), esp. 170–172, and disagree with the traditional view held by Ross (1972), 261, who suggested that Elements is the unoriginal product of a mediocre intellect and should better have been written by David Hume. Since Hume was averse to ›fictions of sympathy‹, I doubt that he had much to say about the sympathetic imagination of the reader of fiction, let alone that of the poet. 176 Certainly, while Kames’ is a reader-response oriented theory of criticism, Gerard’s poetics focusses on the mind of the writer. Thus, sympathy is nowhere mentioned in An Essay on Genius, but only an artist’s sensibility. 177 Abrams (1953), esp. 21, explains this as a shift from pragmatic to expressive theories of art: »the audience gradually receded into the background, giving place to the poet himself, and his own mental powers and emotional needs, as the predominant cause and even the end and test of art.« 178 For an account of Gerard’s transformation of inventio in associationist terms, which allows him to declare invention a matter of the imagination rather than the understanding, cf. Larsen (1993). 179 Alexander Gerard, An Essay on Genius, 41. 180 Ibid., 66.

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an author’s sympathetic creative imagination. Gerard is very strong on the point that neither of these is dispensable for crafting works of fictional literature. With Kames, he criticises that dramatic characters are frequently »made to express their passions, not as if they were really actuated by them, but as if they were spectators«181 and asserts that authors who commit this fallacy are lacking either in genius or sensibility or both.182 Although a crucial requisite for arousing the sympathies of readers, this ability of feeling into and thus properly conceiving fictional characters is not in fact based on sympathy, systematically speaking. An artist’s sensibility is not sympathy and neither Gerard nor Kames call it that.183 To sympathise, to be affected by another, presupposes that person’s affection and is thus not an action, but a reaction that expresses a co-sensitive relation. Certainly, as pointed out above, we may feel for rather than with another due to an epistemological error. Our imagination may lack vivacity and so fail to conceive what our fellow feels in reality; or this fellow may not in fact exist. Feeling into another and annihilating ourselves in the process is still a little different, however. Here, no intersubjective relation is supposed or intended: the writer identifies with the character without reserve. He works himself up into a passion and so creates the object of his reader’s sympathy in the first place. In other words, such imagination comes close to what today we call empathy.184 Gerard and Kames were still aware that fancies of this kind are not sympathetic in the strict sense. Yet when Romantic emotionalism took hold, the sympathetic imagination, often called sympathy in abbreviation, was frequently equated with an artist’s exquisite sensibility. Unlike Kames and other moral sentimentalists of the period, James Beattie is a ›proto-Romantic‹ in this sense. He equates the two concepts when he writes that it is »sensibility, or sympathy, by which we suppose ourselves in the situations of others«.185 On account of this allelopoiesis, the sympathetic imagination was assimilated into new aesthetic systems that pivot on sensibility. Most prominently, the Romantic critic William Hazlitt observed that »the extent of our sympathy is determined by that of our sensibility.«186 As a result, the inclination to sympathise was regarded less _____________ 181 Ibid., 169. 182 Cf. ibid., 172–173: »He feels not the passion, he has not force of genius or sensibility of heart sufficient for conceiving how it would affect a person who felt it, or for entering into the sentiments which it would produce in him. The sentiments which he makes him utter, might all be very proper in a description, a discourse, or a meditation, occasioned by the view of such an object; but they are not natural to a person in whom that object produces a suitable passion.« 183 Gerard argued that sympathy is not a faculty exclusive to the poet, but a relation of co-affectability that features in the subjective mind as a conversion of an idea into an impression. With Hume, he asserts in his 1759 An Essay on Taste, 170, that »sympathy […] enlivens our ideas of the passions infused by it to such a pitch, as in a manner converts them into the passions themselves.« 184 Cf. ch. 1 in this book, 3–4. 185 Beattie, An Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth, 39. Similarly, in Dissertations Moral and Critical, 181, the author claims that a reader’s »Sympathy« comes down to a »gentleness of mind«, i.e. »sensibility«. 186 Hazlitt, Characteristics, 226.

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as a disposition common to all mankind and more as an exclusive trait of the Romantic poet.187 »The Sympathy of the poet with the subjects of his poetry«,188 for which Samuel Coleridge praised Shakespeare and Chaucer, moved into the limelight of criticism. Thus considered as a function of the writer’s creative imagination, sympathy retains little ethical significance: it inspires neither moral sentiments, in a Smithian sense, nor sympathetic emotions of virtue that rebound on the moral world, as Kames envisioned. Remarkably, this has not gone unnoticed by John Keats, the most prominent author traditionally associated with Romantic sympathetic imagination. His description of how he self-identifies with a sparrow sympathetically, which causes him to »pick about the Gravel«189 like a bird, is followed by the concession that this identificatory sympathy is without moral relevance. His sympathetic imaginations, Keats admits, do not command his fellow-feeling for the good of others: »The first thing that strikes me on hearing a Misfortune having befalled another is this. ›Well it cannot be helped[‹].«190 The origins of the sympathetic imagination in Moral Sentimentalism thus slowly dwindled out of sight.

_____________ 187 Cf. Zimmerman (1999), 29: »An eighteenth-century category of ethics and moral philosophy, sympathy was appropriated by critics such as Coleridge and William Hazlitt to describe the ideal imagination.« 188 Coleridge, The Table Talk, 294 (entry for 15 March 1834). 189 Keats, »Letter to Benjamin Bailey, November 22, 1817«, in: Keats’s Poetry and Prose, 103. 190 Ibid.

CHAPTER 5: NARRATING SYMPATHY & SYMPATHETIC NARRATION

Sympathetic Imagination in the Man-of-Feeling Novel Not without irony, Henry Morley, one of the first scholars in Britain to hold a professorship for English Literature, provided an ›index of tears‹ in his 1886 edition of Henry Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling.1 Morley’s list with its 47 entries, which record roughly one mention of weeping in every two pages, continues to amuse students of the novel to this day. What the humorous appendix indicates is that at least since the later Victorian age, readers regarded men of feeling and their acute sensibility as ridiculous. The serious ethical concerns raised by this novel appear to be lost on the latter-day reader. Nonetheless, it is a commonplace in literary scholarship that the male protagonist of sentimental fiction epitomises sentimentalist moral philosophies. Ronald Crane’s epoch-making article on the ›genealogy‹ of the man of feeling claims that this character type embodies a Latitudinarian ethics which reaches back to the seventeenth century. For Crane, this figure represents a system of morality that identifies benevolent emotions with virtue, revaluates sensibility and hinges on (self-)approbation by way of moral sentiments.2 However, as Donald Greene has pointed out in his critical reconsideration of Crane’s seminal essay, the first two of the aforementioned features associated with the male sentimental hero predate the age of Latitudinarianism. Moreover, ethical feelings were not as central to seventeenth- as they later were to eighteenth-century moral epistemology.3 This shift towards Moral Sentimentalism proper, which Greene referred to in passing and Crane failed to acknowledge, is the subject-matter of the foregoing chapters in this book. The emergence of Moral Sentimentalism is an outcome of the transformative history of sympathy and culminates in the making of the sympathetic imagination. Elaborating on Greene’s findings, the following reconsiders how the man of feeling as a novelistic hero fits into this trajectory. To what extent is he the figurehead of moral philosophies that are based on sympathy in one way or another? The best known male sentimental characters of British fiction such as Dr. Primrose, Harley or Yorick feature in novels published between the mid-1760s and the _____________ 1 2

3

Cf. Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, Appendix 3, 110–111. Cf. Crane (1934), who speaks of four features, which really boil down to three. The moral appreciation of benevolence as the standard of nature and the assertion that it is identical with virtue are one and the same thing. Cf. Greene (1977) and esp. 175, where the article also shows that Shaftesbury’s Characteristicks rather than seventeenth-century theology is the direct source of at least one of the examples Crane cited to establish the influence of Latitudinarianism in eighteenth-century lay literature. Whether Shaftesbury is the author of the character type that becomes the eponymous hero in Mackenzie’s novel and in which way the expression friend of mankind favoured by Shaftesbury is related to that of the man of feeling is explored further below. – For a detailed discussion of the influence of the moral theology of Latitudinarianism on Henry Fielding, Laurence Sterne and Oliver Goldsmith, cf. Müller (2009).

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late 1770s, when the Scottish sentimentalist theories of ethics and poetics had already gained currency. Two exceptions to the rule are Samuel Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison (1753), reportedly a response to a reader’s call for a male protagonist in a genre heretofore gendered as female4 and Sarah Fielding’s David Simple (1744), the eponymous hero of which one commentator has called a woman of sensibility in a male body.5 No doubt, the second generation sentimental novel is as much focussed on men of feeling as earlier fiction of that nature was preoccupied with women of sensibility. Thus, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, delicate or acute (fellow-)feeling surfaced as a quality that, ideally, characterises all mankind and not one gender merely. Remarkably, men and women equally featured as protagonists in sentimental fiction only after leading figures of the Scottish Enlightenment had acknowledged that a moral sensibility – i.e. a ready sympathy with the whole of mankind or an impartial spectator – is not a gender-specific trend, but the basis of human morality. The man-of-feeling novel of the 1760s and 70s, which by no means excludes female sentimental characters but merely includes their male counterparts, thus explores the general (rather than the gendered) significance of sympathy or sympathetic imagination, respectively. The male sentimental protagonist who personifies moral philosophies exclusively based on fellow-feeling certainly originates in the eighteenth century. However, there are much earlier examples of philosophical fiction that focus on the motif of the whining man.6 This suggests a ›genealogy‹ altogether different from that which Crane has asserted. Perhaps one of the first men of sensibility who featured prominently in literature is Architrenius, the ›Arch-Weeper‹, in Johannes de Hauvilla’s twelfth-century allegorical poem thus titled. In this medieval satire, the eponymous hero is constantly crying and in despair over the world which he regards as vicious. Neither his travels to distant countries nor his studies at the Parisian university can console him. It is only when he encounters personified Nature that his sickly sensibility is moderated. By holding discourse with her, he comes to understand his own best nature and agrees to live according to it: he seeks a wife who teaches him the value of prudence and so at length he becomes a virtuous character.7 The theme of the whining man of feeling is thus much older than Crane supposed, yet the way in _____________ 4 5

6

7

Lady Bradshaigh, who greatly admired Richardson, asked him in 1749 »to give the world his idea of a good man and fine gentleman combined«, cf. Dobson (1902), 141–142. Cf. the compelling feminist reading of David Simple by Woodward (1984), which points to the fact that whereas male novelists conceived of the first women of sensibility in British fiction, Sarah Fielding as a female author came up with the leadoff male sentimental hero. Reading Motoori Norinaga and Ōta Nanpo, Zwicker (2006), 58–60, has suggested that already in Genji Monogatari – a text which dates back to the early eleventh century and is often called the first ›novel‹ of world literature – the eponymous hero is a man of feeling. Zwicker’s study focusses on nineteenth-century Japanese accounts of what he calls sentimental imagination, which apparently is similar to what since Adam Smith has been described as sympathy or, to be exact, sympathetic imagination. Cf. Johannes de Hauvilla, Architrenius, esp. IX, 14. Thanks is due to Thomas Micklich for pointing out to me that the man-of-feeling theme probably originates in this allegorical poem. For a good account of the work’s take on virtue ethics, cf. Roling (2003).

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which morality is thereby negotiated changes throughout the ages. In Architrenius, sensibility is not yet ethically effective. Indeed, it is represented as a digression from virtuous conduct: the poem demands of its readers to stop crying and pursue an active social and family life. Delicacy of feeling sufficiently defines virtue only much later, namely in the Enlightenment moral philosophies of Hutcheson, Hume, Smith, and Kames, who argue that the virtuous are possessed of an acute sense of the feelings of either the sentient body of mankind or an unbiased third party. This is not to say that the male sentimental novels by Oliver Goldsmith, Henry Brooke, Henry Mackenzie, Laurence Sterne and William Godwin simply spell out the tenets of these philosophers. Sure enough, The Man of Feeling attests to the importance of moral sensation and Goldsmith’s novel comically fictionalises Smithian triadic sympathy. However, these works are more than mere thesis novels, not least because they are highly self-referential.8 They are concerned not only with narrating sympathy, but also with sympathetic narration. Thus, the man-of-feeling novels critique as well as perform the suppositions of Scottish sentimentalist poetics. Echoing Kames and Smith, they pursue the question of how the sympathetic imagination of readers can or should be engaged: is it necessary to mimic sense experience to make them feel for the characters, or is an exhaustive account of the circumstances of passion obligatory for the evocation of (proper) sympathy? In addition, some of the aforementioned sentimental authors appear to follow Edmund Burke’s advice that writers who want to elicit their reader’s sympathies must enumerate or otherwise accumulate certain abstract terms commonly associated with passion. In the concluding chapter of his famous Enquiry, Burke claimed that words which represent ideas acquired by reflection rather than sense experience (such as God or death) can have a strong influence on a reader’s (fellow-)feelings.9 Most likely, this is because the associations they suggest are so numerous: an over-coded language of passion easily commands our sympathy. Put differently, by rendering their sentimental fiction sufficiently experiential, exhaustive or suggestive, many of the said novelists explored how the fancy allows us to feel for others. In so doing, they examined both the moral and the aesthetic functions of sympathetic imagination. Remarkably, as the novelistic genre developed over time, the creative potential of this propositional faculty became the sole focus of attention. Once the relation between sensibility and sympathetic imagination was firmly established, fellow_____________ 8

9

Cf. also Wetmore (2013), who argued that man-of-feeling novels self-consciously draw attention to the materiality of the books themselves and thus shed light on eighteenth-century print culture. However, as discussed further below, some of the self-referential literary techniques Wetmore mentions, such as the fragmentation of text or the use of dialogue, also contribute to the sympathetic appeal of the male sentimental novel. Cf. Burke, Enquiry, 173–177. Notably, unlike Kames in Elements of Criticism, Burke, ibid., 175, is convinced that descriptions, however vivid, cannot arouse our sympathy as much as abstract terms customarily associated with passion: »We yield to sympathy, what we refuse to description«. These latter achieve the greatest effect when combined together or if related to a group of simple words arranged in a series, as Burke, ibid., 174, suggests in his reading of a passage from Milton’s Paradise Lost.

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feeling in idea increasingly featured as the privilege of the delicate-minded artistic genius. This is signalled by the fact that the man of feeling, who initially was characterised as an oversensitive reader, eventually took on the role of the poet. The ›new‹ man of feeling, so called from Godwin’s novel thus subtitled, is one whose sympathetic imaginations serve only the extraordinary sensibility of a poetic mind and hence not the common cause of virtue. By thus conceiving of the sympathetic imagination as a creative faculty first and foremost, the man-of-feeling novels of Godwin and Sterne rendered the concept attractive to emergent Romanticism.

From Laughter to Tears: Oliver Goldsmith on the Propriety and Impropriety of Fellow-Feeling The man-of-feeling novel had its heyday in the 1760s and 70s, when Oliver Goldsmith, a former hack writer whose meteoric rise to fame gained him admittance to Samuel Johnson’s The Club, was at the centre of literary life in London.10 His contribution to the genre of male sentimental fiction, written already in 1762, was the first in a series of such works published over the course of the next fifteen years.11 Though The Vicar of Wakefield is often considered the seminal work of its kind, the seriousness of its apparent Moral Sentimentalism has been fiercely disputed. Readers find it difficult to decide whether the novel is a well-meant sentimental text indebted to the teachings of Francis Hutcheson and his Scottish successors or a satire on the very morality it seems to support. The latter opinion has found favour with most modern commentators12 and so attempts have been made to contextualise the work within various other moral philosophies.13 Margaret Anderson has argued that The Vicar of Wakefield hinges on a Stoic conception of virtue which, following Crane, she claims is at odds with senti_____________ 10 11 12

13

Cf. Forster (1854), II, 333–363. Some of the findings in the first part of this sub-chapter have already been presented in an article of mine, cf. Barton (2018b), 184–191. Cf. e.g. Jaarsma (1968) and Durant (1977), who claimed that Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield satirises Moral Sentimentalism and the cult of feeling loosely connected with it. Their discussions respond to Gallaway (1933), who asserted that Goldsmith’s sentimentalism is not a moral one, but a philosophy of personal relations advocating family affection by the fireside. That there is any morality to be gained from the novel has been cast into doubt by Jefferson (1984), 30–31, who has called the novel a »fairy tale« and considered it neither a satire nor a piece of realistic sentimental fiction, but the innocent product of a »comic imagination«. Pointing to the narrator’s ecclesiastical profession, some scholars have discussed the novel in theological contexts. Most prominently, Battestin (1974), 193–214, has argued that The Vicar of Wakefield is a variant of the biblical story of Job and thus advocates a Christian ethics. By contrast, Durant (1977) asserted that Goldsmith’s is a ›practical‹ morality based on prudence. Supposedly, for Goldsmith, a good life is diametrically opposed to a happy life. However, a short piece of philosophical fiction titled »Asem the Manhater« and contained in Goldsmith’s Essays, 126–139, suggests otherwise: through a series of adventures, the misanthropic character learns that virtue is its own reward and so to be happy, he must also be good.

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mentalism.14 While Anderson’s account is convincing in many respects, it fails to acknowledge that sentimental moral philosophers did not by default embrace an unchecked delicacy of feeling. Most notably, Adam Smith advocated a sentimentalist ethics aligned with Stoicism. Debating the question whether Goldsmith was a Stoic or a sentimentalist, the following shows that his apparent affinity to the thinkers of the Athenian Porch stems from his endorsement of Smithian moral philosophy.15 Although the novelist demonstrated his aversion to the moral sense theories of Hutcheson and Kames, he was a follower of that other school of ethical sentimentalism which hinges on intersubjective sympathies. Thus, if the making of the sympathetic imagination is taken into account, Goldsmith’s reputation as a moral sentimentalist may be redeemed.16 To make my point, it is necessary to go further afield. The perhaps most ›Stoic‹ or indeed Smithian of Goldsmith’s works is without question The Citizen of the World, a fictional correspondence published in a series of instalments from early 1760 onwards.17 These letters, reminiscent of Montesquieu’s Lettres Persanes, look at London society from the point of view of a Chinese philosopher who epitomises Smith’s impartial spectator. Lien Chi Altangi is unfamiliar with the British, he is »intirely a stranger to their manners and customs«18 and thus without prejudice. What makes him sufficiently impartial, however, is his philosophy. As a citizen of the world, he is not partially attached to any one nation, society, or person. Altangi is an advocate of cosmopolitanism, a concept which traditionally is associated with the Stoics. They conceived of the whole of nature as one polis because they found that this universe is perfectly ordered by natural law. Thus, when we comply with the demand of Stoic moral philosophy to live a life according to nature, we conform ourselves to what we originally are, namely citizens of the law-governed cosmos. The only polis the wise man of the Athenian Porch swears allegiance to is that of nature: to go abroad and serve as a political advisor in foreign countries is the most common expression of Stoic cosmopolitanism.19 It is then perhaps not surprising that Goldsmith conceives of the citizen of the world Altangi as a »grave and sententious«20 philosopher at _____________ 14 15

16

17 18 19 20

Cf. Anderson (2008) and compare Crane (1934), 214–219, for whom the revaluation of sensibility is an ›anti-Stoic‹ enterprise. In recapitulation, Adam Smith’s TMS transformed classical Stoicism by asserting that the sympathetic imagination of an impartial spectator accounts for our moral sentiments and restores peace to our mind. Smith held that the sentiments are the locus of our self-improvement. Thus, to pursue the path of virtue, we need to imagine ourselves under the scrutiny of an unbiased observer who may or may not sympathise approvingly. By thus gaining self-command, we enter a state of tranquillity reminiscent of Stoic equanimity. For an account of how this argument diverges from Lord Shaftesbury’s more orthodox interpretation of Stoicism, cf. ch. 4 in this book, 92–98. As pointed out above, Smith is as much indebted to Hume as Kames is to Hutcheson. There are indeed two distinct ›schools‹ of Moral Sentimentalism, one based on intersubjective sympathies and the other on moral sense, i.e. a sympathy with the sentient whole of the species. Cf. Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, esp. ix–xvi, on the history of the novel’s publication. Ibid., 16. Cf. e.g. Kleingeld/Brown (2014), Konstan (2009), 474–475 and Pohlenz (1950), 139–143. Cf. Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, 14.

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home with Stoicism. Although the author no doubt tailors Chinese thought in general and Confucianism in particular to the needs of his own (quasi-)Stoic philosophy, repercussions on account of this allelopoiesis cannot be ruled out. Remarkably, Altangi’s letters quote Mencius alongside Seneca.21 Indeed, as Gerard Delanty has argued, the Confucian doctrine of Tian Zia shares many traits with ancient Greek cosmopolitanism.22 Thus, it is not improbable that Goldsmith found something akin to Stoic world citizenship in the various sources on Chinese philosophy and culture he is known to have studied.23 However that may be, Altangi is by no means an orthodox Stoic who seeks equanimity or apathy. Though he is mostly a cool bystander of the action, he readily enters into the feelings of others if there is sufficient cause. When he meets »poor shivering females« on the streets at night, he sympathetically imagines that, perhaps, they »have been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, and are now turned out to meet the severity of winter.«24 Their miserable situation, he concludes from this imaginative proposition, merits his sympathy. When his fancy determines the objects of his fellow-feeling as proper, which is the case here, the Chinese philosopher is strongly affected on behalf of others: »Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility!«25 As this short episode suggests, the Far Eastern traveller’s conception of sympathy is not truly Stoic (nor Confucian, to my knowledge), but reminiscent of The Theory of Moral Sentiments.26 Remarkably, Altangi sums up Smith’s stoical ›theatre of sympathies‹ in a nutshell when, in his twenty-first letter, he records his first acquaintance with English drama. The play that he attends is of course a sentimental tragedy. Already in the first act, Altangi witnesses the characters »grieving through three scenes«, which strikes him as very odd; he expresses his astonishment that »these kings and queens are very much disturbed at no very great misfortune«.27 The performance fails to move him entirely. Justifying himself to his host, he remarks on the nature of sympathy: I could not avoid observing, that the persons of the drama appeared in as much distress in the first act as the last: how is it possible, said I, to sympathize with them through five

_____________ 21 22

23

24 25 26 27

Ibid., 182. The suggestion could be that exactly like Altangi, these two philosophers were citizens of the world as they travelled to distant countries to promote the moral improvement of mankind. Cf. Delanty (2009), esp. 20. Thus, I strongly disagree with the claim of Quintana (1967), 65, that Goldsmith only chose a Chinese narrator to gesture towards the aesthetic of chinoiserie then in fashion. It is not true that any oriental culture might have served Goldsmith just as well. Altangi is more particularly described as a Confucian philosopher and his philosophy is what qualifies him as a cosmopolitan. Goldsmith studied a wide array of texts by missionaries and travel writers when composing The Citizen of the World, cf. Arthur Friedman’s footnotes in his critical edition. On Confucianism in the Enlightenment more generally, cf. Mungello (1991), esp. 109, where the author concludes that mostly, British Enlightenment thinkers »subsumed Confucianism to English needs«. Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, 453. Ibid., 454. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, esp. 86–88. Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, 91.

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long acts; pity is but a short-lived passion; I hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles, neither startings, strainings, nor attitudes affect me unless there be cause: after I have been once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the principal distress.28

With Adam Smith, Altangi argues that our sympathy presupposes the approbation of the other’s passion as adequate to its cause. Unless we take our fellow’s place in idea, assume his attitude, and determine the propriety of his emotions, we will not sympathise with him. Thus, the Chinese philosopher, by resorting to his propositional imagination, becomes aware of the impropriety of the affections (and sympathies) displayed on the stage. However, his censure applies also to the members of the audience and, more especially, his sentimental companion, who professes that he can make the passion of every character his own and »feel it in every nerve«.29 Viewing both the stage and the auditorium as an outsider, Altangi is indeed the ideal impartial spectator. In his elevated position, he is free to disregard custom and so does not weep along with the men and women of sensibility he meets at the playhouse. Their fellow-feelings are policed by his unsympathetic regard. It follows that this Smithian onlooker finds fault with the expressive performance of emotions. The spectacle of passion, upon which Lord Kames had placed so much value, is the object of the Chinese traveller’s reproof when he spends another evening at a London playhouse. His seventy-ninth letter thus again ridicules sentimental drama: The great secret therefore of tragedy-writing at present, is a perfect acquaintance with theatrical ah’s and oh’s, a certain number of these interspersed with gods! tortures, racks and damnation, shall distort every actor almost into convulsions, and draw tears from every spectator; a proper use of these will infallibly fill the whole house with applause.30

Altangi, apparently unmoved by the theatrical performance, alludes to a commonplace of sentimentalist criticism. His irony targets the supposition that exclamations such as ›oh‹ or ›God!‹ are by themselves productive of sympathy and thus a most effective means for the writer to arouse his audience’s fellow-feeling. Notably, this view was held by Hugh Blair, who in one of his lectures observed that, exactly like a facial expression, a passionate outcry conveys feelings from one person to the next. Supposedly, this is true also in written language: marked exclamations in the text are considered as unmistakable tokens of passion that command a reader’s sympathy.31 As Goldsmith’s ironic tone indicates, he sincerely doubts that exclamations have this kind of affective potential. The performance of acoustic, facial and gestural signs of passion he regards not as affecting, but laughable: _____________ 28 29 30 31

Ibid., 93–94. Cf. ibid., 93. Ibid., 325. Cf. Blair, Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 191: »Exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympathise with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel.« Blair was a lecturer at Edinburgh University from 1759 onwards. His immensely popular lectures were published only after his retirement in 1783.

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Narrating Sympathy & Sympathetic Narration But above all, a whining scene must strike most forcibly. I would advise from my present knowledge of the audience, the two favourite players of the town to introduce a scene of this sort in every play. Towards the middle of the last act, I would have them enter with wild looks and out-spread arms; there is no necessity for speaking, they are only to groan at each other, they must vary the tones of exclamation and despair through the whole theatrical gamut, wring their figures into every shape of distress, and when their calamities have drawn a proper quantity of tears from the sympathetic spectators, they may go off in dumb solemnity at different doors clasping their hands, or slapping their pocket holes; this, which may be called a tragic pantomime, will answer every purpose of moving the passions, as well as words could have done, and it must save those expences which go to reward an author.32

Altangi ironically questions whether proper sympathy is indeed a mere response to the natural, universal and immutable language of the body as advocated in Elements of Criticism, a work which reportedly did not meet with Goldsmith’s applause.33 The suggestion is that facial play and gesture are unfit to communicate serious distresses and cannot substitute the linguistic representation of passion. Only a dramatic speech or written narrative that informs us of the reason and circumstances of our fellow’s feelings will allow us to distinguish between proper affection and improper affectation. Indeed, this is the pivotal requisite for sympathy as defined by Smith. In that he places passions and sympathies which are without sufficient cause under the scrutiny of Altangi, Goldsmith fictionalises the sympathetic imagination of an impartial spectator. The writer’s appreciation of the Smithian ethics of sympathy is apparent also in his much-quoted »An Essay on the Theatre«, which reproves the genre of sentimental comedy. Authors who compose such »Bastard Tragedy«34 are ignorant of the true nature of sympathy, Goldsmith here claims. Citing Aristotle’s Poetics, he argues that when drama portrays the little misfortunes of low or middle characters rather than the serious distresses of the great, it must carry a laughing, not a weeping aspect.35 This distinction between ›laughing‹ comedy and ›sentimental‹ tragedy is founded not so much on the social status of the dramatic characters, but the causes of their sufferings. Indeed, Aristotle asserted that the type or quality of the pains depicted differentiates comedy from tragedy: whereas the former makes us laugh at frailties, the latter focusses on grave distress.36 Goldsmith follows the Aristotelian argument, but he elaborates on or transforms it by referring to the more recent concept of sympathetic imagination, which like Smith he abbreviates as sympathy. He claims that it is on account of »the strongest foundation in Nature«37 that we feel _____________ 32 33

34 35 36 37

Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, 325–326. Forster (1854), II, 192–193, recorded in his biography of Goldsmith that he once »quietly interposed, when Johnson took to praising Lord Kames’s Elements of Criticism, that it must have been easier to write that book ›than it was to read it.‹« Goldsmith, »An Essay on the Theatre«, 212. Cf. ibid., 210–211. Cf. Aristotle, Poetics, 1449a. Goldsmith, »An Essay on the Theatre«, 211.

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with another more readily if he suffers from substantial calamities rather than mere mishaps. Unless the other’s feelings are justified (or more than justified) by their cause, which we determine by placing ourselves in his situation, he does not merit our fellow-feeling. This natural tendency to sympathise only with a person who acquires our approbation and esteem every playwright needs to be mindful of: When Tragedy exhibits to us some Great Man fallen from his height, and struggling with want and adversity, we feel his situation in the same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, and our pity is increased in proportion to the height from whence he fell. On the contrary, we do not so strongly sympathize with one born in humbler circumstances, and encountering accidental distress: so that while we melt for Belisarius, we scarce give half pence to the Beggar who accosts us in the street.38

Seeing a poor beggar in the streets does not immediately cause us to feel with him. Yet if we learn that this beggar is Belisarius, whose tragic story we are familiar with, we will melt into tears.39 Much like Adam Smith, Goldsmith claims that to sympathise (in the ›new‹ sense of the word), we must enter into the situation of another by means of our propositional imagination and discover that his feelings are proper. Unless there is good reason for our sympathising, such as a powerful man’s fall from prosperity to adversity, the other’s fate does not make an impression on us. In summary, Goldsmith sought to put human frailties to the test of ridicule, but he conceded that sympathies with severe calamities are in best accord with propriety. Strikingly, the laughing-sentimental-divide underpins not only Goldsmith’s episodic and epistolary fiction The Citizen of the World, but also his only novel. Since the author was convinced that proper sympathy requires a neat account of the events and intersubjective circumstances that inspired a passion, we would expect his most cohesive fictional work to be a perfect example of serious sentimentalism. This however is not the case. As some scholars have pointed out, The Vicar of Wakefield, being a first-person narrative of the eponymous hero, neatly divides itself into two parts.40 Sven Bäckman’s thorough formal analysis of the work concludes that the text’s structure is reminiscent of drama and that the first half of it is as much a comedy as the second is a tragedy.41 Drawing on this observation, I wish to emphasise that Goldsmith’s laughing-sentimental-divide, though explicitly theorised in »An Essay on the Theatre« as late as in 1773, serves as an undercurrent for his sentimental novel. This distinction, which builds on the assumption that human suffering can be either accidental and risible or substantial and pitiable, can explain the division of The Vicar _____________ 38 39 40

41

Ibid. Belisarius was a Byzantine military commander who, after many successful conquests, lost both his eyesight and his fortune. Cf. e.g. Bury (1911). Cf. Quintana (1967), 109–112, who called the first part of the novel a succession of comic episodes somewhat in the fashion of The Citizen of the World and the second a traditional romance. His view is echoed by Dixon (1991), 76–77. Cf. Bäckman (1971), 40–49. Though Bäckman discussed the dramatic features of the The Vicar of Wakefield, he does not address the role of sympathy or the significance of the laughing-sentimentaldivide for the novel.

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of Wakefield into two distinct parts and thus its seeming ambiguity towards Moral Sentimentalism.42 Following three introductory chapters, the sections four to sixteen represent the frailties of the various characters in a comic light. Charles Primrose and his family experience a number of laughable mishaps. The vicar’s naïve financial investments prove unfruitful and so he has to leave Wakefield to earn his living in a different parish. As his wife and children have difficulties adapting to a less affluent life, they frequently make fools out of themselves in their new social environment. Primrose adds to their troubles when he calls off his son’s wedding out of moral principle and so keeps him from marrying rich. Nor is the narrator himself exempted from ridicule: a false clergyman successfully cheats him out of his last bit of money by appealing to his vanity. These not so serious disasters, though they surely harm the pride of those involved, do not endanger their life and safety. Certainly, »Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities«,43 but speaking with Adam Smith, they cannot command (the reader’s) proper sympathy. The intradiegetic narrative of Sir William Thornhill, who no doubt is the true man of feeling in the novel, reads as a commentary on the subject. This sentimental protagonist is a frequent guest at the home of the Primroses, to whom he is known under the name of Mr. Burchell. Although he is a much acclaimed philanthropist, he makes his new acquaintances, who only recently have arrived from Wakefield, believe that he is penniless. When asked for an account of Sir Thornhill, this gentleman recounts his own history as if it were that of another and thus refers to himself in the third person: He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of their character; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others.44

In his younger days, Thornhill epitomised a species of sentimentalism which accounts any and all fellow-feeling as good. As »a man of consumate benevolence«,45 he comically represents an ethics of infinite good will often (but unjustly) associated with Hutcheson.46 Thus, Thornhill is an ideological brother of Henry Mackenzie’s _____________ 42 43 44 45 46

In consequence, I disagree with the much-quoted judgment of Friedman in his 1974 edition of The Vicar of Wakefield, xi, that this work is »a comic novel with a sentimental plot«. One of the chapters is thus titled, cf. ibid., 64. Ibid., 29. Ibid. Cf. ch. 3 in this book, 55–56. Indeed, to make our social affections predominant and feel only little for ourselves constitutes the perfection of virtue for the ›father‹ of the Scottish Enlightenment. It should be noted, however, that Sir Thornhill is not entirely a virtuous man in Hutcheson’s sense: the philosopher insisted that placing ourselves under the guidance of our moral sensations is crucial

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Harley or Henry Brooke’s Harry. He is characterised chiefly by his sensibility. This disposition is of course no emotion in itself, but the quickness or delicacy of some sense, to speak with Samuel Johnson.47 Thornhill’s sensibility is not one of the external senses, as the passage above points out.48 Rather, he suffers from an acuteness of those specific internal sensations that originate in the feelings of his fellows: his is »a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others.«49 He is the fool of sympathy, in the ›older‹ sense of the word, and so feels for the smallest of distresses. Since he does not in fancy transport himself into the circumstances of another’s distress, his fellowfeeling is ungrounded. The original passion is not assessed as proper or improper in view of its cause and thus no sympathy in the ›new‹ Smithian sense of approbation arises. In other words, Thornhill sheds tears over laughable scenes just as if they were a true tragedy. Consequently, he is like those elegiasts who, later in the novel, are ridiculed for being in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the disaster.50

Yet Goldsmith’s tale of the man of feeling does not end here. The author allows Thornhill to reform his character and thus finally makes this gentleman personify Moral Sentimentalism proper. The focus of Mr. Burchell’s narrative accordingly shifts to the intersubjective dimension of his moral actions. His philanthropy impairs his fortune and when at last he is no longer able to offer financial support to the needy (or not so needy), he meets with universal contempt. Thornhill now comes to realise that his conduct was in fact determined by the approving sympathies of his fellows: His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to reverence.51

The interested and thus partial praises of Thornhill’s beneficiaries had been the compass of his life. As a result, he had disregarded his own moral sentiments and so failed to cultivate (Stoic-)Smithian self-command. Once he becomes aware of the _____________ 47 48

49

50 51

for our constant moral rectitude. After all, and contrary to what Adam Smith has said about him, Hutcheson conceives a system of moral sense, not infinite benevolence. Cf. Samuel Johnson, »sensibility«, in: Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary, 461. Dussinger (1974) has claimed that Primrose’s sensibility – which she neither distinguishes from (moral) sentimentalism nor sympathy – is psychosomatic. In other words, both his external and his internal senses are said to be delicate. However that may be, the case is clearly different with Thornhill. Cf. Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield, 29. Goldsmith elaborated on this theme in his comedy The Good Natur’d Man. The sentimental hero Honeywood is not pitiable, as the initial scene makes clear. His uncle proclaims that he will unfold a series of feigned scenes of misery to cure his nephew’s acuteness of feeling. The audience, because it knows the principal character safe from true distress, can laugh freely at his follies, cf. Goldsmith, The Good Natur’d Man, 19–20. For a good but dated discussion of the play’s approach to sentimentalism, cf. Heilman (1940). Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield, 90. Ibid., 30.

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partiality of rebounding sympathies, he embraces his genuine feelings of selfapprobation and so reforms his character. Perhaps he makes use of Smith’s remedy, the sympathetic imagination of an internalised impartial spectator? Goldsmith seems to suggest as much when he makes this gentleman perform a moral self-division reminiscent of that which Smith had advocated. When Sir Thornhill becomes the third-person narrator of his own story of impropriety, narrated and narrating self are clearly distinguished by the use of different personal pronouns. Thornhill’s former self, ever ready to sympathise with the (not so serious) misfortunes of a second person, is thereby placed under the scrutiny of a third party that has come to respect the guidance of moral sentiments. A triadic relation is demonstrated and so propriety, which also finds expression in the sober style of Thornhill’s narrative, carries the day. Remarkably, as the story runs its course and the reformation of character is on its way, Thornhill the narrator increasingly identifies with Thornhill the protagonist: when finally relating his return to virtue, the storyteller makes a slip of the tongue by unwittingly adopting a firstperson perspective.52 Once the actor-self embraces Smithian propriety, the spectator-self enters into and approvingly sympathises with it. As a result, personal identity is restored. The first part of Goldsmith’s novel thus fictionalises Moral Sentimentalism in a comic vein. Mere sympathetic sensation and consequent benevolence, the laughable tale of Thornhill seems to suggest, must fall short of virtue. The reformed man of feeling comes to represent an intersubjective ethics based on sympathetic imagination. Certainly, Goldsmith is aware of the intricacies of this propositional faculty. When the question whether Mr. Burchell should be the object of contempt or praise is raised at Primrose’s dinner table, the sympathetic imagination is thus again the object of fictional commentary. The vicar is convinced that Sir Thornhill, who he believes is the impoverished Mr. Burchell, does not merit any sympathy since he imprudently has spent his life in carelessness. Adam Smith would no doubt agree. By contrast, his daughter Olivia, who has taken a liking to their frequent visitor, says that the cause of Burchell’s distress does not matter and exclaims that sympathy is due to any sufferer.53 No doubt, she is a woman of feeling who is possessed of a partial and thus improper sensibility of the affections of others. Finally, deciding the argument, her brother Moses asserts that when we propose ourselves in another’s shoes, it might well be that our sympathy does not correspond to the true emotions of our fellow: I don’t know if this poor man’s situation be so bad as my father whould represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel in their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome.54

_____________ 52 53 54

Cf. ibid.: »I now found, that–that–I forget what I was going to observe: in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune.« Cf. ibid., 40. Ibid., 40–41.

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With this metaphor of the mole, Goldsmith points to the subjective tinge of sympathetic imaginations. Like Smith, he observes that placing ourselves in the position of our fellow can give rise to feelings which the other is not sensible of. Sympathy in such cases is unilateral: due to an epistemological error, the spectator feels for rather than with the sufferer. Certainly, the veracity of our sympathy, the success of putting ourselves in the narrated situation of the other, depends on the truthfulness of the narrative. Since Thornhill’s account is false in some respects, most notably because it omits his return to prosperity, the sympathy of the Primroses is without sufficient foundation in reality. In summary, Goldsmith makes use of the man-of-feeling theme both to offer reproof to immoral sentimentalism and to fictionalise Adam Smith’s intersubjective ethics. Doubtless, the comical first half of the book is not intended to stir the affections of readers. All of the distresses recounted are far from grave. In consequence, Goldsmith seems to have expected, these feelings (as well as the sympathies occasioned by them) are policed by the laughter and wanting sympathy of the reader. From chapter seventeen onwards, however, the focus is on truly pitiable rather than ridiculous pains. The vicar’s children are now all given their fair share of misery. Primrose’s daughter Olivia is seduced and abducted by the young nephew of Thornhill, who is a man of the world, much in contrast to his uncle, the man of feeling. This event the narrator fittingly calls »the first of our real misfortunes«.55 Primrose goes out in search for his daughter, who soon after is abandoned, and journeys around the country. He is invited to stay with friends and attends a travelling theatre performance of The Fair Penitent, a play about the seduction and abandonment of a young wife, obviously an allusion to his daughter’s fate. Here he is surprised to find that his eldest son George, whom he believed to be in more fortunate circumstances, is reduced to the state of a poor wayfaring actor. Returning home with his daughter, whom he meets by chance in very miserable circumstances, Primrose finds his house destroyed by fire. He can only just save his two youngest children from the flames. Now reduced to poverty, and without the means to pay his rent, the vicar is sent to prison. To add to his troubles, his daughter Sophia is kidnapped and thus faces the same fate as her sister Olivia, who is falsely reported dead. George, after challenging young squire Thornhill to a duel, joins his father in his cell beaten and bloody. Evidently, the heretofore comic plot has turned sentimental and so Goldsmith tries his hand at sympathetic narration. In other words, he no longer aims to engage the propositional imagination of his readers to disapprove of the sentiments of the characters, but to wholeheartedly sympathise with them. How does he attempt to achieve this? Certainly, since Goldsmith is in favour of Smith’s ›Stoic‹ sentimentalism, neither Primrose’s extradiegetic first-person narrative nor the intradiegetic accounts of his children closely imitate sense experience so as to furnish readers with ideal presence. Indeed, their narratives are not experiential in a strong sense. Speaking with Kames, Goldsmith is guilty of the ›spectator fallacy‹ because his narration is characterised by reflective remembrance throughout. All the narrators relate their sufferings not only in _____________ 55

Ibid., 92.

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retrospect, but as if they were an impartial bystander of the action. They soberly report a chain of causes and effects to make sense of their situation, yet refrain from a minute description of their past sensations. Primrose, when he is in search of his abducted daughter and discovers his son on the travelling theatre’s stage, remarks: »I don’t know what were my feelings on this occasion; for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description«.56 Unable to make his past sensations ideally present to his mind, he does not even attempt to describe them. The vicar nonetheless appeals to the fellow-feeling of his readers, namely in that he encourages them to ›bring his case come to themselves‹ in a Smithian manner: »let parents think of my sensations by their own«.57 The proper sympathies of readers, Goldsmith seems to suggest, will necessarily arise when they follow a cohesive account of serious distress. An exhaustive narrative, which states all the facts of the case, is quite enough to make readers assume the situation of characters and feel for them. There is however one sentimental episode in the novel that even the Kamesian critic would readily applaud. When Primrose returns home with his wretched daughter in anticipation of a quiet family life and then, to his great shock, finds his house is in flames, this contrast plays out as one between imaginative propositions and actual sense experience. At the beginning of the passage, the vicar describes the workings of his sympathetic imagination by making use of the figure of the bird, which Laurence Sterne and John Keats would later employ to the same end. By imagining the sensations of a bird which frightfully has left its nest, the vicar begins the perhaps most affecting account of his emotions in the entire novel. Indeed, if he can be called a whining man of feeling, it is because of the sentimental episode which thus commences: As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections out-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side, with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife’s tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones.58

Primrose fancies himself in the position of a bird hovering around its nest in rapture. This gives rise to further sympathetic imaginations: he anticipates a future scene of family happiness and so, on account of imaginative propositions, comes to feel the tenderness of his wife and the joy of his small children. Nonetheless, for the reader, Smithian sympathy still reigns supreme. Not sensations, but only propositions are suggested by the narrative. The vicar mentions rather than describes the particulars of this scene of welcome. Suddenly, however, there is a change in tone to mark the difference between Primrose’s anticipations and his experiences. Rather than relating the circumstances of bygone incidents as arranged by his understanding and commenting on the action in a moralising tone, which is generally the case, Primrose the narrator now figures things of the past as present in his view. He ideally witnesses _____________ 56 57 58

Ibid., 105. Ibid. Ibid., 130.

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the waning of the night and hears the sounds of »the shrilling cock, and the deepmouthed watch-dog«59 emerging out of early morning stillness. Yet as he draws nearer his home in idea, he suddenly relives shock, as suggested by his exclamation: »I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every apperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry«.60 Speaking with Kames, the vicar enters into a ›waking dream‹ that makes him perceive and feel as he has once felt. He first re-enacts the experience of tranquillity during his nightly walk and then, by contrast, gazes at his burning house, which to him is ideally present, ridden by sudden fear for his little children within. Hence the narrator, deeply touched by his lively memory, exclaims in despair: »O misery!«61 Goldsmith evidently dramatises ideal presence by giving voice to what appear to be the quasi-perceptions of a remembering Primrose. Notably, once the danger is over and his little family is saved, the narrator ends his most engaging account with the indifferent remark: »I now stood a calm spectator of the flames«.62 He self-consciously returns to the relation of incidents from the perspective of a cool or impartial bystander. Brushing the ideal presence of past events aside, Primrose again takes the ›Stoic‹ poise of reflective remembrance. The final chapters of the book leave readers without a doubt that sympathetic imagination, which determines the propriety of affections, is not a vain fancy merely, but serves the best of causes. As the novel draws to its close, Goldsmith emphasises that such sympathy, which the reader of sentimental fiction is bound to feel, is crucial also in the moral world, because it is the hinge and bottom of an intersubjective ethics. Finding himself in prison, Primrose is in the company of mean criminals, who go about their days in »execrations, lewdness, and brutality«.63 This tricolon of abstract terms no doubt gives the reader some indication of the vicar’s horrors, who at first feels strongly repelled by the conduct of his fellow inmates. Yet once Primrose brings their case home to himself and fancies that these men, who certainly do not please God, must also find »all mankind in open arms against them«,64 he begins to feel for them. The vicar is astonished that these vicious people are entirely unaware of the disapprobation they inspire in every impartial spectator: »Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind.«65 Primrose feels for the delinquents and so becomes insensible of his own perceptions as well as sensible of what the criminals themselves do not feel, namely the unsympathetic regard of mankind. Although a man of feeling’s unchecked sensibility of the miseries of others is no doubt ridiculous, a delicate sense of the censure of the world is a serious necessity. The vicar thus dedicates his time to »giving sensibility to _____________ 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Notably, this is an instance of narratorial commentary and not of direct speech, which otherwise is very common in the novel and always set in inverted commas. Ibid., 131. Ibid., 144. Ibid. Ibid.

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wretches divested of every moral feeling«.66 He is certain that a moral sensibility of impartial sympathies is not to be laughed at: when he preaches virtue to his fellow convicts, he becomes the object of their ridicule; yet he does not waver, saying that »these people, however fallen, are still men, and that is a very good title to my affections.«67 The vicar is tricked into reading out of a book of jests instead of scripture, but he nonetheless persists in his enterprise. Primrose is convinced »that what was ridiculous in my attempt, would excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be permanent.«68 He is at last successful and brings about the reformation of this group of criminals. The fact that moral sentiments are above ridicule his vulgar listeners (and so perhaps also the readers of the novel) eventually come to realise. However laughable the vicar’s narrative may seem at first, it is not entirely devoid of serious Moral Sentimentalism in the end.

From Fool to Friend: Henry Brooke and Henry Mackenzie on the Virtue of Sympathies The Vicar of Wakefield, though it was the first man-of-feeling novel written in the 1760s, was not the first published in that decade.69 The first out of five instalments of Henry Brooke’s The Fool of Quality was seen to the press in 1765 and the second followed in the year after. The work chronicles the life history of the sentimental hero Harry (also called Henry), second son of the Earl of Moreland who, as the preface suggests, is a fool only in the eyes of quality fools.70 He is introduced as a paragon of moral excellence in contrast to the polite world of the aristocracy, which is thus characterised as immoral. Sent away to live among rude townspeople as an infant, he prospers and grows into a healthy, good-hearted boy. To the contrary, his foil and elder brother Richard, who is educated to become a gentleman, turns into a weak and whimsical young man. When Harry finally visits the stately home of his parents, he offends the sensibilities of everyone present. As the narrator explains, he is unable to enter into the attitudes of his peers and anticipate how his actions will be regarded by them, because he »has no Apprehension or Conception of Persons or Things«.71 No doubt, Harry is a stranger to Smith’s stoical ›theatre of sympathies‹. _____________ 66 67 68 69 70

71

Ibid., 149. Ibid., 148. Certainly, this is no cause for the reader to engage in laughter. None of the jests are related in the vicar’s narrative, which maintains a sober tone throughout. Ibid. Goldsmith sold the manuscript to his publisher in 1762, yet the novel was not published until 1766, cf. Arthur Friedman’s »Introduction«, in: The Vicar of Wakefield, vii–viii. Cf. Brooke, The Fool of Quality, I, xxi: »Perhaps I call him a Fool, in Complaisance to a World that will, certainly, honour him with the same Title, when they find his Wisdom of a Size not suited to their Own«. Throughout the novel, polite society unanimously regards Harry as an idiot, whereas the author-narrator accounts him a veritable philosopher. Ibid., I, 39–40.

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His insensibility to the applause or censure of the world allows him to ignore social custom and remain in a state of nature. His undiscriminating benevolence is thus the one single disposition that characterises him. The only feeling he is sensible of is the charitable and highest form of love: »true Love […] was that of which Harry had, almost, the only Perception.«72 The fool of quality’s sole quality is then not his nobility, but his being benevolent to the degree of idiocy. Brooke’s bulky novel is not simply a demonstration of infinite benevolence, however. The first two volumes especially can count as philosophical fiction: unlike the remaining three, these include lengthy dialogues that comment on the protagonist’s upbringing. Thus, some serious philosophy is inserted into the fictional narrative.73 Like other men of feeling, Harry is presented as the figurehead of a certain ethics and so, accordingly, the novel has been treated as a philosophical one by the handful of commentators it has attracted. Arguing that Brooke’s sentimental fiction does not blend well with the piety of the sermonising dialogues embedded in it, Leslie Stephen has called the work a »bewildering mixture of religious mysticism with poetical sentimentalism«.74 Meanwhile, for Clive Probyn, whose focus is on the similarity between mercantile and benevolent exchange, The Fool of Quality reconciles British commercial expansion with a Christian ethics that pivots on agapē.75 More recent studies, pointing out the Émile-like education of the principal character by his foster father, have asserted that Harry’s is the story of a ›child of nature‹ indebted to the teachings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.76 However, as Michael Gassenmeier has shown in some detail, Brooke’s is not a clear case of Rousseauism. Indeed, the novelist rejects many of this philosophy’s constitutive features in favour of Methodist faith and was thus much acclaimed by John Wesley, who published an abridged version of The Fool of Quality.77 Thus, on the face of things, and unlike other male heroes of sensibility, Harry seems to have little or nothing to do with Scottish Moral Sentimentalism. Notably, however, there are some striking similarities between the Christian ethics of benevolence advocated in Brooke’s novel and the moral teachings of Francis Hutcheson. This becomes clear from one of the philosophical dialogues that takes place on the extradiegetic level between the author-narrator and an unnamed friend. The two interlocutors discuss the character type of the man of feeling and his relation to virtue. Asked to give »a clear Conception of the Character of your true Gentle_____________ 72 73 74 75 76

77

Ibid., I, 44. In what regards the interplay of dialectic dialogue and linear narrative, the work is reminiscent of Lord Shaftesbury’s »The Moralists«, cf. ch. 2 in this book, 44–45. Stephen (1876), II, 439. Cf. Probyn (1987), esp.156. Cf. Thompson (2015), 137–138, and Gassenmeier (2017), 103–111. An exception to the rule is Wetmore (2013), esp. 92–94, who argued that The Fool of Quality elaborates on a ›mechanistic‹ understanding of both sympathy and virtue. Ignoring the work’s theological argument, he wrongly assumes that Harry’s is only a physical sensibility, not also an acute awareness of the will of God. Cf. Gassenmeier (2017), 111–121.

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man«,78 the author-narrator provides a catalogue of Harry’s virtues, among them charity to the poor, respect for the female sex, an inclination to give precedence to others and a strong interest in the fate of every one of his fellows.79 He concludes that Harry is a good rather than a just man, a distinction which he traces back to Saint Paul’s »Epistle to the Romans«:80 For a just or righteous Man, says he, one would grudge to die; but for a good Man one would even dare to die. Here, the just Man is supposed to adhere strictly to the Rule of Right or Equity, and to exact from others the same Measure that he is satisfied to mete; but the good Man, though occasionally he may fall short of Justice, has, properly speaking, no Measure to his Benevolence, his general Propensity is to give more than the due. The just Man condemns and is desirous of punishing the Transgressors of the Line prescribed to himself; but the good Man, in the Sense of his own Falls and Failings, gives Latitude, Indulgence and Pardon to others; he judges, he condemns no one, save himself.81

According to the author-narrator, moral excellence consists in goodness, which is defined as an unconditional and boundless benevolence. Notably, the good man shows his good will towards all his fellows equally: his disinterested affection is impartial. He imitates the benevolent God and it is thus that he is virtuous: »the Heart of the good Man […] is as a Lamp lighted by the Breath of GOD«.82 This claim echoes Hutcheson, who asserted that a man characterised by »universal calm Benevolence« epitomises the »Perfection of Virtue«.83 Ontologically speaking, and again agreeing with Brooke, the father of the Scottish Enlightenment held that our natural affection of benevolence, which originates in the sympathy of our species, is ultimately grounded in the good will of the deity.84 In other words, Hutcheson viewed human nature from a theological perspective and so would have struck a sympathetic chord with Brooke. This is where the similarities end, however. Crucially, the two men disagree on the question of moral discernment. While the above passage states that the good man never judges of another’s character, Hutcheson (following Shaftesbury) claims that, by contrast, the virtuous man is always acutely aware of moral distinctions because he is guided by his reflected internal sense of morality.85 Certainly, the discrepancy is even greater if we compare Brooke’s philosophy to that of Adam Smith. Concerned with propriety or merit, the latter pivots on the sympathetic imagination of an auditing impartial spectator who indeed is »desirous of punishing the Transgressors« and so, in Brooke’s eyes, is a just man.86 _____________ 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Brooke, The Fool of Quality, II, 201. Cf. ibid., II, 204–208. Cf. Romans 5:7. Brooke, The Fool of Quality, II, 209. Ibid. As pointed out by Abrams (1953), 58–59, the lamp is a common theological metaphor among the Cambridge Platonists. Hutcheson, Essay, 8. This is because the readiness to love every one of our fellows counterbalances our selfish as well as our partial benevolent affections. Cf. ch. 3 in this book, 61–62. Cf. ibid, 55–56. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, 91, 96.

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Admittedly, The Fool of Quality shows little engagement with the ethical debates of Moral Sentimentalism and the making of the sympathetic imagination in particular. However, in some places, the novel seems to refute the Scottish ethics of sympathy.87 Attending a night at the theatre, Harry’s uncle Goodall is asked by a fellow spectator whether he can »believe that there is such a thing as sympathy«,88 to which he replies half-dismissively: »Occasionally, Sir, I think it may have its effect, though I cannot credit all the wonders that are reported of it.«89 In this setting of the theatre, which had become a figure for the Smithian philosophy of sympathies, Brooke seems to question the intersubjective foundation of morality professed by Hume and Smith. The suggestion is that sympathy (or sympathetic imagination, to be exact) cannot account for all that it was credited with by the leading philosophers of the day, namely the communication of affects and the generation of moral sentiments. Notwithstanding, the sympathetic imagination, insofar as it describes a propositional faculty which allows us to feel for literary characters, is discussed in a favourable light in Brooke’s novel. Apparently, the author had an interest in a poetics (albeit not an ethics) of sympathy. In the domain of fiction, the sentimental novelist conceded, it has its proper effect. As a conversation between the Earl of Moreland and the philosopher Mr. Meekly points out, to feel for a narrated other in fancy is in best accord with virtue. This observation serves the latter’s argument when he tries to convince his friend »that no Soul was ever capable of any Degree of Virtue or Happiness save so far as it is drawn away, in its Affections, from SELF«.90 Put differently, he sets before himself the task to demonstrate that giving precedence to public over private affections is what virtuousness and, consequently, happiness consists in. This of course is a position held by all the Scottish moral sentimentalists.91 To prove his case, Meekly recounts the history of Eustache de Saint Pierre, the mayor of Calais, who together with five others citizens surrendered himself to Edward III and thus risked death to save the people of his town. The narration in this instance, from the perspective of eighteenth-century critics at least, is sympathetic in one respect only. The tale of Eustache de Saint Pierre is certainly not exhaustive, but merely anecdotal. Nor does it present the events from the perspective of sense experience, although there is one brief account of passionate convulsion: »They embraced, they clung around, they fell prostrate before them. They groaned, they wept _____________ 87

88 89 90 91

Brooke also comments of the self-indulgence of sympathy, cf. The Fool of Quality, III, 49, where a countess demands to hear more of another’s woe to sympathise with it in great delight: »Go on, cried the Countess, go on, I insist upon it. I love to weep, I joy to grieve, it is my Happiness, my Delight to have my Heart broken in Pieces.« Ibid., V, 164. Ibid. Ibid., I, 121. This is also true of Adam Smith. Cf. TMS, 24, where he claimed that »to feel much for others and little for ourselves […] constitutes the perfection of human nature« and Kames, Essays, 30, who says that »subordinacy of the self-affections to the social« approaches a definition of virtue or moral obligation.

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aloud«.92 What is striking, however, is the excessive use of abstract terms, most of which belong to the associative-semantic field of morality. On page 133 alone, which includes the climax of the action (namely the deliberation of the king whether to execute the citizens of Calais or to spare them), the author makes use of the words »Glory«, »Applause«, »Fame«, »Triumphs«, »Honours«, »Magnanimity«, »Virtue«, »Punishment«, »Praise«, »Esteem«, »Mankind«, »Shame«, »Reproach«, »Disgrace«, »Ambition«, »Sacrifice« and (Burke’s favourite) »Death«.93 Notably, this is a page of less than 250 words and some of the above are mentioned twice. Apparently, Brooke agreed with the Burkean supposition that suggestive abstract terms easily command our sympathy. The author no doubt expected this ›whirlwind‹ of moral terms to move the reader: Meekly’s attentive listener, the Earl of Moreland, is said to be strongly affected by this story of self-sacrificing benevolence. Remarkably, Harry’s father comes to realise that when sympathising with the six virtuous citizens of Calais, he has assumed their place in idea. Thus, he now fears that, having put himself into their shoes, he was not in truth affected on behalf of these glorious men, but on account of himself only: While you related the Story of those divine Citizens, I was imperceptibly stolen away and won entirely from Self. I entered into all their Interests, their Passions, and Affections; and was wrapt, as it were, into a new Word of delightful Sensibilities. Is this what you call Virtue, what you call Happiness?94

With its apparent subjective tinge, is the sympathetic imagination but another kind of selfishness? Meekly answers in the negative, explaining that there are »two Kinds of Self« and that this particular one, which enters into the concerns of others, is not the self of self-interest. Rather, in what appears to be a monistic argument, he claims that the sympathising self is that in which human beings are connected to the self of nature and thus God’s »Will of infinite Wisdom, of infinite Benevolence«.95 Brooke implies that readers who sympathise on account of their propositional fancy are inspired by their natural good will, which thus expands into the realm of ideal presence. Doubtless, his sentimental fiction aims at the propagation of Christian benevolence by this very means. Henry Mackenzie’s short piece of prose fiction »The Effects of Religion on Minds of Sensibility: The Story of La Roche« (1779) is a witty commentary on the devoutness of Brooke’s novel, as suggested by its title. At the same time, however, the work is a critical acknowledgment of Scottish Moral Sentimentalism, with which its author was well familiar. Mackenzie studied at the University of Edinburgh between 1758 and 1761, a time that witnessed the publication of The Theory of Moral Sentiments, the work which popularised and elaborated on the Humean notion of sympathetic imagination. Remarkably, in »The Story of La Roche«, Mackenzie imagines the meeting of two men of feeling with altogether different philosophies of _____________ 92 93 94 95

Brooke, The Fool of Quality, I, 129. Ibid., I, 133. Ibid., I, 136. Ibid.

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life. One of them, the eponymous hero, epitomises Christian benevolence, whereas the other is the personification of Scottish Enlightenment thought. The story takes places in a small French town, the retreat of an English-speaking philosopher thinly disguised as David Hume, who lived in La Flèche in the 1730s.96 As a man of reason, whose mind is occupied with abstract subjects, the Humean protagonist is without »more delicate sensibilities«, yet he is not unfeeling: »if he was not easily melted into compassion, it was, at least, not difficult to awaken his benevolence.«97 The philosopher is able to show his good will when an elderly stranger, who but recently arrived in the village, falls desperately ill. Taking the man into his home, Mackenzie’s Hume nurses him to recovery. Once his health is restored, the Swiss clergyman La Roche and his benefactor become fast friends. Three years later, when the philosopher visits Switzerland, he finds La Roche mourning the death of his only daughter. Suddenly, he is deeply touched by this father’s piety and the comfort that can be found in religion. On the face of it, Mackenzie puts Humean scepticism to the test by having the Scottish philosopher befriend a devout man whose greatest wish is to convert the famous atheist back to Christian faith. La Roche takes his new-won friend to church and preaches to him »of the praises of God, and his care of good men«.98 There is also some talk about »the death of the just«,99 which the third-person narrator refers to only vaguely. Doubtless, this is an allusion to the aforementioned Paulinian epistle to the Romans, which states that while we readily give our life to save that of the good man, we hesitate to do the same for the just man. Mackenzie apparently points to Brooke’s reading of Paul in The Fool of Quality, which concluded that to be exceedingly good and disregard the dictates of justice is what the virtue of a man of feeling consists in. Mackenzie’s narrator echoes this distinction and, apparently in contrast to the ›just‹ Scottish philosopher, describes La Roche as a »good old man«, remarking that any »philosopher might have called him an enthusiast«.100 This enthusiasm, it becomes clear, is a matter of delicate feeling only: »La Roche’s religion was that of sentiment, not theory«.101 In other words, and as the full title suggests, the Swiss preacher is first and foremost a man of sensibility and it is because of this that his benevolence is so excessive. The gist of the story appears to be that the sceptic Hume, after having seen the consoling effects of faith in his friend, »wished that he had never doubted«.102 However, as the fictional editor asserts, the story must also be read as »ludicrous, and often ironical.«103 The joke is on the clergyman as much as it is on the philosopher. _____________ 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103

Cf. ch. 3 in this book, 52. Mackenzie, »The Story of La Roche«, in: The Man of Feeling, ed. Harkin, Appendix C, 180. Ibid., 184. Ibid. Ibid., 185. Ibid. Ibid., 190. Ibid., 179.

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That La Roche cannot but befriend the atheist, who has treated him with an uncommon benevolence, seems to suggest that philosophy is no hindrance to and religion no necessary requirement for moral excellence. The story thus disproves »the idea of philosophy and unfeelingness being united«,104 which Brooke had suggested by making his man of feeling Harry a simpleton. On the other hand, since the religious enthusiast is likewise befriended by the Humean philosopher, the distinction between goodness and justice asserted in The Fool of Quality is cast into doubt. As the story of the two seemingly unequal friends shows, to have »[e]very better feeling, warm and vivid; every ungentle one, repressed or overcome«,105 as is the case with La Roche, and to act under the guidance of moral sentiments, as the Humean philosopher supposedly does, comes down to the same. To be benevolent towards all in imitation of God and to act in such a manner as an unbiased third would desire are but two descriptions of the same thing: both point to the fact that the impartiality of fellow-feeling is a requisite for virtue. Whether this is acquired by religion or philosophy is of little significance in moral practice, or so Mackenzie seems to imply. Friendship, which traditionally is considered as a rebound of moral feeling,106 discerns both the position of the clergyman and that of the philosopher as sufficiently virtuous. The theme of virtuous friendship is pursued also in Mackenzie’s most famous novelistic work The Man of Feeling (1771). More especially, the novel raises the question whether such sympathy in virtue can reform the character of a man who suffers from a sickly sensibility. Thus, like »The Story of La Roche«, it is a fictional commentary both on Moral Sentimentalism and the ethics of infinite benevolence as advocated by Brooke. Gerard Barker’s seminal book on the works of Mackenzie contains the only in-depth study of how The Man of Feeling relates to Scottish ethical theories of the period. The scholar here asserted that the novel is a fictionalisation of Adam Smith’s The Theory of Moral Sentiments, which Mackenzie is known to have read and praised highly.107 Barker claimed that for Smith, sympathy really means empathy and thus the act of projecting feelings into others by way of the (creative) imagination. He concluded that in the work of the Scottish philosopher, »[s]ympathy comes, therefore, to be associated with a highly refined sensibility«.108 Supposedly, this sensibility is what characterises the principal character in The Man of Feeling. Barker is right of course that sympathy, or rather sympathetic imagination, was increasingly regarded as connected to an uncommon sensibility or delicacy. For instance, this is the case in the novels of Sterne and Godwin, as I argue further below. Certainly, however, this is not equally true for the moral philosophy of Smith. He held that when we change places in fancy with another, this ideally provides an epistemological access to his affections, thus allowing us to feel with rather than into our fel_____________ 104 105 106 107 108

Ibid., 180. Ibid., 183. Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 31–32. On Mackenzie’s reception of Smith, cf. Barker (1975), esp. 28–34. Ibid., 29.

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low.109 True sympathy is the prospective outcome. Nor can the sympathetic propositional imagination, which Smith’s ethical theory is built on, presuppose an uncommon sensibility that only men of feeling are possessed of. This would call into question the philosopher’s enterprise to account for moral sentiments and thus human morality in general. Finally, it does not appear that the conduct of the protagonist Harley is regulated by a view that a Smithian impartial spectator might readily enter into, as Barker himself conceded.110 The protagonist’s excessive weeping in front of and with others, for which Mackenzie’s novel is famous, is at conflict with Smith’s ›stoical‹ tastes and in particular his precept that even tears which meet the demands of propriety are best concealed out of a regard for other spectators. How then are we to understand this discord between Harley’s excessive sensibility and Smith’s sentimentalist ethics? Most scholars are agreed that the novel’s sentimentalism miscarries and concluded that Harley’s delicacy of feeling disproves Scottish moral philosophy altogether. John Mullan’s seminal book argues that like much other sentimental fiction, The Man of Feeling seeks to construct a sociable community, but fails in the attempt and so ends up showcasing the dangers of sentimentality.111 While William Burling has accredited this failure to Mackenzie’s artistic flaws, such as the fragmentary character of his work,112 Maureen Harkin asserted that the novel self-consciously presents the limits of sentimental fiction and concluded that its sentimentalism serves no ethical, but only aesthetic purposes.113 Remarkably, however, these views are in disagreement with Mackenzie’s own words, who in one of his letters hoped that his novel would be »uniformly subservient to the cause of Virtue.«114 On this note, my reading of The Man of Feeling will suggest not only that Mackenzie seriously examines Moral Sentimentalism, but also that the literary form of his novel exactly meets his purpose. For certain, a ready sympathy (with mankind or the impartial spectator), rather than sensibility more generally, is what moral philosophies from Shaftesbury to Smith are based on. Thus, a demonstration of the ill effects of a man of feeling’s uncommon delicacy does not necessarily unseat them. _____________ 109 Certainly, Smith conceded that due to an epistemological error, the sympathetic imagination might produce feelings in the sympathiser not felt by the person concerned, so that he feels for, not with him. Again, this is not empathy, which entails an annihilation of self and is fully identificatory. Cf. ch. 1, 3–4, ch. 4, 112 and ch. 5, 151–152 in this book. 110 Cf. Barker (1975), 31–33. 111 Cf. Mullan (1988), esp. 123. 112 Cf. Burling (1988), who asserted that Mackenzie’s novel fails in its attempt to tell apart natural affection from mere affectation chiefly because of two flaws, namely its thinly characterised protagonist and its fragmentariness. Both these supposed faults, I argue below, are calculated to contribute to its (twofold) sympathetic appeal. 113 Cf. Harkin (1994). 114 Henry Mackenzie to James Elphinston, 23 July 1770, in: The Man of Feeling, ed. Harkin, Appendix B, 165–166, here 166. This is not to say, however, that the novel represents excessive sensibility as virtuous, a view held by Ivana (2015), who thus assumed a shift from the ideal of the good-natured man to that of the man of feeling in eighteenth-century morality.

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It is beyond doubt that Mackenzie’s novel attests to the power of sympathy, and this not least by its literary form, which some modern commentators find so unattractive. The fictional editor explains the text’s fragmentariness by claiming that he publishes a manuscript many parts of which are lost. A negligent reader is said to have torn out many pages to wad his gun. Chapter eleven is thus the first contained in the book and many more chapters are missing until the conclusion following the fifty-sixth. Moreover, most of the sections presented to the reader are rather short and it is only later in the novel that we find larger segments of text. The Man of Feeling thus exhibits an episodic structure. Though mostly brief, these episodes are not without a sympathetic appeal. It may well be that the latter-day reader cannot find it in his heart to either pity the prostitute, who states in a handful of words how she was deceived by her lover, or be moved by the brief story of the mad woman whose father had sent her fiancé to die in the West Indies. However, these miniature sentimental narratives were well calculated to move the eighteenth-century reader. At least, this is what the fictional editor’s preface suggests when it claims that the sentimental text printed thereafter »is no more a history than it is a sermon.«115 The implication is that it is neither precisely because it is something in between. This is not to say that the novel is generically hybrid in the sense that it incorporates an actual sermon, as is the case with Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, for instance. What Mackenzie seems to point out is that, as a work of prose fiction, The Man of Feeling has a somewhat sermon-like appeal in that it caters to the heart rhetorically. While earlier examples of the man-of-feeling novel, such as Sarah Fielding’s David Simple or Samuel Richardson’s Grandison, provide a full life history of the male hero, Mackenzie’s much shorter text, at least for the most part, presents unconnected sentimental episodes, in which the protagonist Harley is himself the recipient of various short tales of distress. The book gives no exhaustive or coherent account of the sentimental hero’s experiences, it does not make the reader familiar with his exact circumstances. Rather, the book is almost entirely composed of short sketches that, as they attempt to move, convey only the most general notions of human joys and sorrows. The sentimental reader, exactly like the novel’s protagonist, must sympathise without extensive knowledge of the other’s situation. One scene of misery rapidly succeeds another, to which it has no strict relation, and so the recipient is kept busy feeling for the concerns of a whole crowd of fictional others. No doubt, when appealing to the reader’s sympathy, the tear-jerking tableaus of the novel have a tendency to engage him in the manner of a sermon, and not like a history or longer narrative, which would work on his propositional imagination only or primarily. Apparently, to inspire readers with (Stoic-)Smithian sympathies is not what the novel is after. How then does Mackenzie preach sympathy to his readers? A good example of the author’s sentimental ›sermonising‹ is the episode of the prostitute. This woman called Emily, whose choice of reading had confirmed her in her naïveté and hence not given her sufficient warning of men’s vices, as the first-person narrative sug_____________ 115 Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 4.

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gests,116 is seduced and abandoned. The state she finds herself in when she discovers her lover’s deception is referred to as a »motley scene of terror, confusion, and remorse.«117 This tricolon of abstract terms of passion gives the reader some first indication of her feelings and literally sets the scene which, as the adjective »motley« suggests, is now rendered in the brightest of colours. When she describes entering the house in which her misery began, Emily paints a ›complete image‹ in the sense of Lord Kames. Notably, the memories that animate her narration are said to be those of ideal presence. Emily insists that her sense impressions are as vivid now, at the time of her telling the story, as they were originally: »Perhaps, Sir, I tire you with my minuteness; but the place, and every circumstance about it, is so impressed on my mind, that I shall never forget it.«118 Put differently, she easily figures her past scene of distress as present in her view and so can give a precise account of her original perceptions. The suggestion is that her lively narrative, being sufficiently experiential, can also turn her listener Harley into an ideal spectator. This man of feeling, who is always ready to shed tears when he lays eyes on a scene of misery, is just as moved by Emily’s story as by an original perception. The narrative makes him quasi-visually perceive what has befallen the fallen girl and so, speaking with Kames, the sympathetic sensation of real presence, with a little help of the imagination, expands into a world of ideal presence. This is not the only way in which Emily’s narration is sympathetic, however. The prostitute’s sentimental account presses every possible button to move both Harley and the reader. When Emily reaches that point in her story when, unable to pay rent to her landlady, she was faced with the decision whether to prostitute herself or go to prison, she stops recounting her perceptions. Instead, she now appeals to the sympathetic propositional imagination alone, the workings of which had been described by Adam Smith: Amidst all the horrors of such a state, surrounded with wretches totally callous, lost alike to humanity and to shame, think, Mr. Harley, think what I endured: nor wonder that I at last yielded to the solicitations of that miscreant that I had seen at her house, and sunk to the prostitution which he tempted.119

Emily calls upon her listener to enter into her former state in idea (»think, Mr. Harley, think«) and ask himself whether he would not have made the same decision? Surely, if he puts himself in her shoes, he cannot wonder at the outcome, or so she implies. Put differently, the girl now also implores Harley’s evaluative sympathy, which _____________ 116 Emily’s narrative lays great stress on this. Cf. ibid., 42, where she grieves that »the course of reading to which I had been accustomed, did not lead me to conclude, that his [her seducer’s, my note] expressions could be too warm to be sincere«. Also, 43, she believes that she was misled by »those warm ideas of an accomplished man which my favourite novels had taught me to form«. Perhaps Mackenzie criticizes the first generation sentimental novel for its lack of moral reflection? The reformation of the protagonist Harley, his overcoming his naïveté, seems to suggest as much. 117 Ibid., 45. 118 Ibid., 46. 119 Ibid., 49.

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is based on propositional imagination. What is more, and this would no doubt have pleased Edmund Burke, she also showers the man of feeling with abstract terms of passion or morality. Within the next half page, there is mention of »virtue«, »anguish«, »pity«, »justice«, »benevolence«, »misfortune«, »justice« (again), »punishment«, »terrors« and »goodness«.120 This ›sermon‹, which is ever so moving by the standards of eighteenth-century sentimentalist poetics, makes a great impression on Harley who, perhaps not without good reason, sheds an abundance of tears. For certain, if readers were to weep whenever the protagonist does, who is frequently imposed upon and acts charitable towards paupers and fraudsters alike, they would find themselves deceived time and again. However, it is not likely that they will do so. As the novel’s narrative structure suggests, it places the reader in a position to ascertain whether Harley’s sympathy is proper or not. Most of the characters recount their own histories, which have a sermon-like appeal and thus inspire immediate, perhaps even improper sympathies in both Harley and the reader. However, the man of feeling himself is not awarded the privilege of telling his own tale. The extradiegetic third-person narrative, delivered in a sober and sometimes comic tone reminiscent of that in The Vicar of Wakefield, will engage only the proper sympathies of readers, or so it seems. Certainly, when readers follow the intradiegetic narratives, they are in the position of a second, who sympathises with a first person. Yet when the extradiegetic narrator informs them of the sympathetic rebound between Harley and a second person, they are elevated to the station of an onlooking third, an impartial spectator faced with the task of interpreting a sympathetic relation. In other words, speaking with Hume and Smith, readers are then expected to form moral sentiments by performing a sympathetic triad.121 It is in this sense that The Man of Feeling is also a ›history‹: it sometimes requires readers to step into the shoes of two or more characters through sympathetic imagination and discern the subjective cause as well as the intersubjective effects of a narrated action. Put differently, they are asked not only to weep along, but to make sense of Mackenzie’s narrative in a sentimental way. Yet that is, quite literally, only half the story. Mackenzie’s novel attempts to serve the cause of virtue also in another manner, one that goes beyond what Smith and Kames had demanded of sentimental fiction. Evidently, the work seeks to instruct in matters of morality by means of thought as well as sentiment. A prime example of this is the episode of the beggar, whom Harley meets on his way to London. The chapter is crucial because, firstly, it characterises the man of feeling as being possessed of sensibility, secondly, it defines the relation between sensibility and virtue and, finally, it raises the question whether the latter is an absolute or intersubjective reality. Harley is here introduced as a man whose exterior senses are so acute that a small pebble in his shoe can cause him grave distress. His delicacy is contrasted with the insensibility of the beggar, who walks barefoot over sharp stones on the road: _____________ 120 Ibid. 121 Cf. ch. 3, 73–74 and ch. 4, 90–92, in this book.

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›Our delicacies,‹ said Harley to himself, ›are fantastic; they are not in nature! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, while I have lost the most delightful dream in the world, from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe.‹122

Literally, the man of feeling cannot step into the beggar’s shoes. His sensibilities, which he remarks are »not in nature«, render him a man of unnatural refinement. In contrast, the beggar is defined by a natural rudeness, or so it appears. This characterisation is immediately followed by a comic reversal. After having handed the beggar some money to remedy his »want of shoes and stockings«,123 Harley learns that the stranger is a professional beggar, who has perfected his art. He tells his beneficiaries their fortune, pleases their vanity and so makes a good profit. Beggary is his »trade« and lying his »profession«.124 The beggar enjoys the »idleness« that his line of work affords him and is not very troubled that he has »never kept a friend above a week«.125 Thus, he is an artist in his field rather than a man of nature. Harley, on the other hand, suddenly appears to have too much of (good) nature in him when, instinctively, he pulls another coin out of his pocket: Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but virtue bade him consider on whom he was going to bestow it.―Virtue held back his arm:―but a milder form, a younger sister of virtue’s, not so severe as virtue, nor so serious as pity, smiled upon him: His fingers lost their compression;―nor did virtue offer to catch the money as it fell.126

Apparently, the man of feeling is characterised not only by an acuteness of his external, but also of his internal senses. These feelings however are natural rather than refined.127 The sentimental hero is motivated only by the »younger sister of virtue«, a natural affection of benevolence that knows no bounds. Nonetheless, when »Virtue held back his arm«, the man of feeling nearly gives in to a moral sensation, considering that the object of his good will does not merit his charity. Yet benevolence prevails over virtue’s »severe« demands and he drops the coin. Remarkably, Harley’s ruling feeling is also less »serious« than pity and thus, presumably, a little ridiculous. In any case, a readiness to sympathise (at least in the ›new‹ Smithian sense) is ruled out as Harley’s defining feature. At bottom, this hero’s sensibility is neither moral nor sympathetic, but a mere excess of natural affection. Indeed, in this respect, the man of feeling is more rude than polished. What the passage quoted above implies is that, by itself, benevolence is not identical with virtue. Apparently, the author makes use of Shaftesbury’s distinction between goodness and virtuousness, which served the philosopher to categorically distinguish a primary natural affection from a secondary moral sense, the latter being the _____________ 122 123 124 125 126 127

Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 16. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 17. Ibid., 18. Remarkably, the preface suggests that Harley’s story has »something of nature, and little else« in it, cf. ibid., 5.

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defining disposition of the so-called friend of mankind.128 This differentiation was echoed by Hutcheson, Kames and others, who assimilated it into their moral philosophies.129 Thus, unlike in »The Story of La Roche«, Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling points out the nice distinctions between Moral Sentimentalism, on the one hand, and that ethics of infinite benevolence which Brooke fictionalised in his man-of-feeling novel, on the other. Benevolent sensibility is not moral sensibility, he argues. Strikingly, when making this case, Mackenzie’s terminology differs significantly from that of his contemporary Adam Smith, who hardly ever used the word virtue and instead employed the terms propriety or merit, which highlight the intersubjective foundation of morality. Also, the novelist refers to fellow-feeling as »pity« rather than sympathy, thus avoiding the pivotal concept of the moral philosophies of both Hume and Smith. What then is virtue in Mackenzie’s eyes, if not a sympathy with an impartial spectator? The episode of the beggar gives the reader a first indication of its nature, namely by giving rise to the following question: what is the reason for Harley’s moral displeasure, his sudden ›severity‹, which at last is overcome by his generosity? The text has two answers in store. First, the man of feeling may have taken offence at his fellow’s self-professed »idleness«, for the sake of which he lies. For a member of the lower gentry, who can comfortably live on his £ 250 a year without contemplating work, this would be rather surprising, however. Much more problematically, the beggar admits to having »never kept a friend above a week«. Presumably, this is why, when the man of feeling pulls out a second coin, »Virtue held back his arm«: Harley’s moral sensation indicates that friendship has an intimate relation to virtue. Indeed, virtuous friendship is a recurring theme in The Man of Feeling, as I demonstrate below. Hence the following is a refutation of an article by David Spencer, who has suggested that the novel identifies virtue with prudence.130 Certainly, in the further course of the novel, Harley sometimes falls prey to deception and so his benevolence is exploited. While this may serve as a warning to the reader, as Spencer suggested, Mackenzie’s sentimentalism is not therefore simply more ›practical‹ than that of his contemporaries. To my mind, it seems doubtful that prudent ›worldliness‹ can mend Harley’s deficiencies. The man of feeling’s troubles begin only when he is persuaded to take care »Of Worldly Interests«131 and go to London to acquire a profitable lease, _____________ 128 Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 37–38. Chapin (1983), whose article promises to investigate »Shaftesbury and the Man of Feeling«, made the same claim, although he did not interpret this pivotal passage. Certainly, in the small space of merely four pages, Chapin does not demonstrate his hypothesis. While the assertion that neither Mackenzie nor Shaftesbury agree with a system of infinite benevolence is true, the scholar does not explain why the novelist shows a greater affinity to the author of Characteristicks than any one of the Scottish moral sentimentalists, who likewise argued for the importance of moral sensation. As I argue below, what links the thought of Mackenzie and Shaftesbury more especially is their shared view that moral feelings are in fact rational affections which can be affirmed by reason. 129 Cf. ch. 3, 54–55 and ch. 4, 100, in this book. 130 Cf. Spencer (1967). 131 Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 9. The second chapter (numbered twelve) is thus titled.

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an enterprise that proves to be a road to disaster. Hence the relation between the man of feeling and the man of the world is not, as Spencer has asserted, a dialectic one.132 For sure, in The Man of the World, Mackenzie’s second novel, the seeming prudence of the libertine Sindall is shown to be the fool of his immoderate desires. At last, he is made to relent for his vices on his death-bed. He recognises his own proper nature and thus the worth of goodness: he suddenly feels »the purpose of universal benignity« and his consequent moral sensations »indeed take from me the world; but they give me myself.«133 The man of the world is but a man at the close of the novel. He recognises that sheer humanity is what his natural self consists in. This benevolent human nature Harley, the man of feeling, is already possessed of from the start. Certainly, he does not in his turn conclude his life with the insight that it would have been better to pursue his worldly interests. Rather, he comes to value friendship. By making him a friend of friends in the last third of the novel, Mackenzie reforms his hero’s character: he renders Harley’s sensibility more ›severe‹ and so turns it into an acuteness of the moral sense. Rather than assuming the perspective of the man of the world in the end, Harley emulates the philosopher, to whom one of the novel’s episodes (which tellingly begins with the words »The friend«)134 is dedicated. This thinker is characterised as a good man turned Cynic, possessed of »the spirit of Diogenes«,135 who as history tells us strolled through the crowded streets with a lit lantern in broad daylight, exclaiming that he is in search of a true man.136 Much like Diogenes of Sinope, the philosopher whom Harley meets at a dinner party despises society and is therefore called a misanthropist by men of the world. When the party conversation turns to the topic of honour or politeness, the Cynic thinker voices a severe critique: Honour and Politeness! this is the coin of the world, and passes current with the fools of it. You have substituted the shadow Honour, instead of the substance Virtue; and have banished the reality of Friendship for the fictitious semblance, which you have termed Politeness:137

The philosopher determines virtue as a substance, a thing in itself, which has properties or accidents. One of those is friendship, or so the double opposition suggests. Meanwhile, honour is called the shadow of virtue. As an intersubjective moral concept which, speaking with Francis Hutcheson, emerges from rebounds of approbatory sympathy, honour follows upon the heels of virtue, but never quite catches up to it, being ever behind. Thus, the Cynic philosopher implies, a moral philosophy based on intersubjectivity alone is insufficient. It only breeds politeness, an exchange of »empty forms«138 produced by conventions agreed upon by a majority. The virtuous _____________ 132 133 134 135 136 137 138

Cf. Spencer (1967), 314. Mackenzie, The Man of the World, II, 243. Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 27. Ibid. Cf. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, VI, 41. Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 30. Ibid.

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man must embrace friendship which, as the misanthrope points out, is a reality in the Platonic sense and thus a true form. Interrupting his speech, Harley meets with the philosopher’s »contempt«,139 not least because of his new coat, which seemingly attests to his politeness. Yet this is not to say that the (moral) sentimentalism which the man of feeling epitomises (or comes to epitomise) is thus refuted. The man of philosophy is ready to allow that a sense or sensibility of morality is »truly excellent«: There are some, indeed, who tell us of the satisfaction which flows from a secret consciousness of good actions: this secret satisfaction is truly excellent―when we have some friend to whom we may discover its excellence.140

The philosopher suggests that the proper place of moral sensation is friendship. This agrees well with Shaftesbury, who asserted that philía, which is founded on mutual feelings of approbation, is the epitome of sympathy.141 To thus sympathise with a friend (and hence also mankind, the sympathy with which is the moral sense) means to practice virtue. However, remarkably, despite his insight into the reality of friendship, the Cynic philosopher is himself a misanthrope. He falls short of a true friend of mankind because friendly feeling is unknown to him.142 Although he rationalises virtue, he lacks what the man of feeling possesses in great abundance, namely natural affection. By contrast, Harley has not (or not yet) rationalised friendship as a reality and so, since he pays no respect to his moral sensations as a result, does not act upon virtue. Put differently, he empties his purse although virtue inclines him to do otherwise. Hence the true dialectic relation in Mackenzie’s novel is that between the man of feeling and the man of philosophy. Notably, as pointed out above, this relation reoccurs in »The Story of La Roche«. Only together, Mackenzie seems to suggest with Shaftesbury, natural affection and reasoning bring about virtuous character, i.e. moral sensibility, the expression of which is the practice of friendship.143 Readers are not informed whether the Cynic philosopher mends his ways, but they learn that Harley does. In the final episodes of the novel, the protagonist reforms his character in that he becomes a friend of friends. In the chapters numbered 34 and 35 as well as the fragment titled »The Pupil«, the man of feeling is the sympathetic listener of two tales of friendship. The first, which Mackenzie called his »favorite Passage«,144 is the story of Old Edwards.145 He is an old acquaintance whom _____________ 139 140 141 142

Ibid. Ibid., 33. Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 38. Compare Mackenzie’s refutation of moral rationalism in an essay printed in The Lounger, 18 June 1785, in: The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 100–103, here 102: »This separation of conscience from feeling is a depravity of the most pernicious sort; it eludes the strongest obligation to rectitude, it blunts the strongest incitement to virtue; when the ties of the first bind the sentiment and not the will, and the rewards of the latter crown not the heart but the imagination.« 143 Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 37–38. 144 Henry Mackenzie to Elizabeth Rose, 24 January 1770, in: The Man of Feeling, ed. Harkin, 164–165, here 164. 145 Cf. Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 65–71.

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Harley meets on the street and implores to tell his story. Edwards recounts how, in order to spare his son, who would otherwise have been enlisted in the colonial army and forced to leave his family without income, he signed up for a voyage to the East Indies in his child’s stead. Unlike his comrades in the colonies, Edwards is not willing to make a profit »at the expence of my conscience«.146 Thus, when he sees them torture an old Indian prisoner, in an attempt to get hold of a hidden treasure, Edwards intervenes and frees the poor man. In other words, rather than acting on a partial sympathy with his countrymen, and thus according to the claims of honour, he chooses to follow virtue. In consequence, he is severely whipped and turned out of the regiment without any means of subsistence. Soon after, the freed Indian finds Edwards and bestows his treasure on him, thus allowing his deliverer to return home, while pushing himself into poverty. In virtue, which is above all ethnic conventions or considerations of honour, Old Edwards and the old Indian found their friendship. What is significant about this episode is that it is the first intradiegetic narrative which paints not only a scene of misery, but one of virtue also. This makes a great impression on Harley. The tale furnishes him with moral sentiments which, up to this point, were reserved only for the other characters or the reader: as he says to Edwards, he wishes to »imprint the virtue of thy sufferings on my soul.«147 Remarkably, it is here not only the sufferings, but their virtue, which Harley sympathises with. By imprinting this virtuousness on himself, he reforms his character and becomes Old Edward’s friend. Thereafter, they live together on the man of feeling’s estate in »tranquil virtue«,148 convincing each other in long conversations that »the feelings are not yet lost that applaud benevolence, and censure inhumanity.«149 Put differently, the two men partake in each other’s virtue as their moral affections rebound between them. They are now men of moral sensibility rather than benevolence only. The second story of virtuous friendship that Harley listens to is a variant of the first. Its narrator is one Edward Sedley, presumably a friend of his and notably a namesake of Old Edwards. This is perhaps an allusion to the transitive nature of sympathy in virtue: my friend’s friend is necessarily my friend if my friendship is one of moral feeling. Sedley now recounts the story of »Mountford’s friendship«150 and, thus, how he became the friend of this, his father’s friend, who is employed as his tutor. The two men go on a Grand Tour through Italy, where Sedley enjoys the company of a group of young noblemen in whom he admires both a »warmth of friendship« and a »warmth of honour«.151 That these two, friendship and honour, cannot well coexist, is what the narrative is set to prove. Sedley eventually learns that Count Respino, who meets with the approbatory sympathies of everyone and with _____________ 146 147 148 149 150 151

Ibid., 69. Ibid., 71. Ibid., 75. Ibid., 78. Ibid., 88. Ibid., 89.

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whom he has formed a close acquaintance, has mercilessly put an innocent family in jail out of jealousy. He is also informed that his tutor Mountford has for some time attended the poor wretches in their misery and provided them with the necessaries of life. Sedley now acts on his newly formed moral sensations, renounces the »friendship«, which Respino was »pleased to honour« him with, and proclaims that though the count may still be »a man of honour«, he cannot be his friend.152 Thus at last, Sedley acquires a very clear conception of those »ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define«153 and acknowledges that Mountford has a greater claim to his friendship than any polite gentleman. Like his friend Sedley, Harley (and here again, a similarity of names evidences sympathy in virtue) can lay claims to the title of philosopher in the end. Apparently, he comes to realise the ideas or forms that were suggested to him by the modern Diogenes. Ultimately, the man of feeling finds, the moral sensibility, which has become the guide of his actions, is an expression of reason: I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay: a thousand things occurred where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise.154

According to Harley, Smithian »impropriety«, the anticipation of the approving sympathies of others or indeed »the world«, should not ultimately guide our moral conduct. Our »reason« affirms sentiments of another kind, namely those rational affections, to speak with Shaftesbury, which rebound between friends. Certainly, much like the Cynic philosopher, Harley has learned to see that »[t]he world is in general selfish, interested, and unthinking«, yet he is not therefore a misanthropist: »I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind.«155 As the author of Characteristicks would put it, to be a friend is to be a friend of mankind. The closing monologue thus paints Harley as a man of feeling grown more ›severe‹ and, on that account, more virtuous. He has learned to reconcile his natural affections with his moral sensations under the banner of friendship. Rather than holding back his arm only, virtue now determines all his actions. In conclusion, Mackenzie does not simply refute Brooke’s system of infinite benevolence from the perspective of contemporary Moral Sentimentalism. Though he values the sympathetic imagination, he remains critical of Smith’s ethics of propriety. He steers a middle course as he affirms the worth of moral sensibility without proclaiming morality a mere intersubjective matter. His man of feeling discovers the virtue of (Shaftesbury’s) moral sense philosophy and encourages the sympathising reader to do the same. _____________ 152 Ibid., 92. 153 Ibid., 88. 154 Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Harkin, 136. Here I make an exception and quote from Harkin’s edition because that of Vickers, 94, sadly misspells »impropriety«, a key term of Smithian ethics, as »impropreity«. Both editors have based their text on the second edition of August 1771 which indeed, 259, correctly reads »impropriety«. 155 Mackenzie, The Man of Feeling, ed. Vickers, 95.

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The ›New‹ Man of Feeling: Laurence Sterne and William Godwin on Sympathetic Imaginations of the Poetic Mind Although published almost forty years apart, Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey and William Godwin’s Fleetwood: or, The New Man of Feeling equally stand out among male sentimental novels. Both these works were written by moral rationalists who agreed that reason and not emotion plays the pivotal part in rendering a person virtuous.156 Their perspectives on the character type of the man of feeling, who had come to epitomise Moral Sentimentalism, were thus somewhat more critical than those of other authors writing in the genre. Nonetheless, like all man-of-feeling novels, those of Sterne and Godwin provide fictional commentaries on the sympathetic imagination. Yet since the two novelists did not consider this propositional faculty as the hinge and bottom of morality, they explored its other, less serious functions. How did they interpret the sympathetic imagination differently and in what way did they thus make the male sentimental novel ›new‹? Ever since Rufus Putney’s seminal article, which observes a gradual shift towards sentimentality throughout the nine instalments of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, a shift that supposedly responded to the demands of critics, it has become a commonplace to say that the sentimentalism in both this and the author’s second novel A Sentimental Journey is not serious, let alone ethically effective.157 The sentimental mode, Putney asserted, is »a hoax by which Sterne persuaded his contemporaries that the humor he wanted to write was the pathos they wished to read.«158 This argument has since been put into perspective by Arthur Cash, whose extensive study on the ethical dimensions of A Sentimental Journey reads the work in the light of the moral teachings expressed in Sterne’s sermons. Cash concluded that while the author embraced moral rationalism, he acknowledged the human need for sympathy and benevolent exchange.159 Although the sentimental traveller and Anglican churchman Yorick is guilty of moral failure due to his boundless and self-flattering sensibilities, this is not to say that Sterne dismisses feeling and sentiment altogether. The treatment of sensibility in A Sentimental Journey has since been the object of much scholarly attention. Madeleine Descargues has pointed out that Yorick indulges in delicate as well as indelicate feelings and that he is thus less of a polite gentleman than other male sentimental heroes.160 On a different note, adding to Wolfgang Iser’s observation that Sterne fictionalises Locke’s sensualist epistemology,161 Jona_____________ 156 On Sterne’s moral rationalism, cf. Cash (1966), 103–124. Godwin’s ethical theory will be discussed at greater length in the following chapter. 157 Cf. Putney (1940), whose position is echoed by Dilworth (1948). 158 Putney (1940), 368. 159 Cf. Cash (1966), esp. 24–25, 31–53, 103–124. 160 Cf. Descargues (1998), who argued that Yorick’s pursuit of platonic relationships with women is a way of showcasing the virtue of fidelity to himself and others, which however is frequently frustrated by his fickleness and indelicacy. 161 Cf. Iser (1987), esp. 11–20.

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than Lamb has shown how David Hartley’s psychology of sensibility also plays out in Yorick’s storytelling.162 The protagonist’s unprincipled train of thoughts accounts for the episodic structure as well as the erratic style of his first-person narrative, Lamb argued. Certainly, the disconnected sentimental scenes do not point to the spontaneity of common sympathy, as is the case in The Man of Feeling, but rather the rapid flux of thought in a mind characterised by an uncommon delicacy of the senses. At any rate, scholars are agreed that the sentimental traveller’s sentimentality is self-indulgent and comically so.163 Thus, if Yorick’s is not primarily a sensibility of the feelings of others, but of self-affections, where does this leave sympathy? It is generally assumed that Yorick’s readiness to sympathise is one of the features of his sensibility, yet the novel’s relation to theories of the sympathetic imagination, though some commentators mention it in passing, has rarely been an object of study.164 One notable exception is a seminal article by Kenneth Maclean. It argues that Sterne, although he was not particularly interested in the ethical implications of the sympathetic imagination as discussed in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, nonetheless fictionalised this concept in Yorick’s train of thoughts: »Sterne has given us the creations of Yorick’s sympathetic imagination.«165 Maclean observed that in A Sentimental Journey, Sterne explores the »unethical possibilities«166 of Smithian sympathy, its ability to please, amuse and distract. Building on these observations, the following draws some further conclusions as it discusses the transformation thus achieved. In particular, my reading of the novel suggests that it explores the sympathetic imagination chiefly as a capacity which allows the artist to feel into his own creations rather than for fictional or with real others. Accordingly, this certain propositional faculty is acknowledged as a characteristic feature of the poetic mind. Certainly, it appears bold to say that sympathy plays a pivotal role in Yorick’s narrative given that the term is never mentioned and there is but one allusion to the natural principle of co-affectability. The narrator, witnessing how very spontaneously certain facial expressions spread from one person to another, remarks that »looks […] are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which _____________ 162 Cf. Lamb (1980), who claimed that Sterne’s character psychology further makes use of the associationist theory of his contemporary David Hartley. 163 Cf. e.g. Müller (2009), 317, Kraft (1996), 158, and esp. Maclean (1949), 409, who extends the argument also to sympathy: »The whole business of sympathy, seen in Sterne’s subtle way, is a selfindulgence.« 164 Putney (1940), 61–64, briefly discussed a possible influence of Hutcheson and Hume in his reading of A Sentimental Journey. Meanwhile, Loveridge (1982), 151–166, citing Hume and Smith alongside eighteenth-century medical texts, found that sympathy is not a positive moral force in the novel, but rather an ›automatic‹ reflex of some kind. However, this is not the only eighteenth-century understanding of the term: sympathetic sensation is not sympathetic imagination, yet both are often called sympathy in abbreviation. 165 Cf. Maclean (1949), 407. 166 Ibid.

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party is the infecter.«167 Yet this phenomenon of sympathetic sensation is not interesting to the sentimental traveller, who quickly decides to »leave it to your men of words to swell pages about it«168 and so never returns to the subject of sympathy proper again. There is then good reason to doubt that the narrator’s propositional imaginations, his transporting himself into the situations of others in idea, can be regarded as truly sympathetic. They do not give expression to that greater sympathising which interrelates all members of mankind, or so it seems. For certain, Yorick’s own private philosophy can do without the term sympathy. Although he claims that all parts of the cosmic system, including human beings, are co-sensitively connected, he finds that this is not on account of universal sympathy, but »sensibility«, which he calls the »great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground«.169 There have been multiple attempts to make sense of this passage either as a caricature of Newtonian sensationalism, a reference to Hartley’s notion of nervous vibration, a defence of a vitalist cosmology or an anthropomorphic projection of the narrator’s sensibility unto the universe at large.170 Whichever may be the reason, it is remarkable that sensibility here assumes the place which is traditionally assigned to sympathy:171 the former rather than the latter Yorick holds accountable for his ability to »feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself«.172 The sentimental traveller regards his partaking in the pleasures and pains of other beings less as a general disposition common to mankind and more as an exclusive trait of a man of feeling such as himself, whose senses are sufficiently acute to render him affected by a single hair falling to the ground. Accordingly, when Yorick enters into the situation of others in idea, it appears that, rather than serving general sympathy, these propositional imaginations are governed by his subjective sensibility. This is evidently the case when he gives an account of his sentimental reading. Distressed by the prospect of not being able to acquire a passport, without which he will have to go to prison, Yorick seeks distraction in a volume of Shakespeare. To dismiss his troubles from his mind, he begins reading one of the playwright’s comedies: I transported myself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so busy with Don Pedro and Benedick and Beatrice, that I thought not of […] the Passport.173

As suggested by the title of the play that Yorick picks to read, the affair of the passport is indeed Much Ado About Nothing, yet this man of feeling nonetheless finds his situation too painful to bear. Speaking in a metaphor, he claims that »my way is too _____________ 167 168 169 170

Sterne, A Sentimental Journey, 78. Ibid. Ibid., 162. Cf. Cash (1966), 95, Lamb (1980), 299–301, Dussinger (1987), esp. 265–272, and Chadwick (1978), 198–199. 171 Sterne thus echoes James Beattie and anticipates William Hazlitt, who equated the two concepts sympathy and sensibility, cf. ch. 4 in this book, 112–113. 172 Sterne, A Sentimental Journey, 162–163. 173 Ibid., 120.

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rough for my feet«, an expression dictated by his sensibility (and reminiscent of a respective passage in The Man of Feeling).174 Thus, Yorick turns his back on reality by pursuing »some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds of delights«.175 The sentimental traveller embarks on a voyage to the world of fiction to seek aesthetic pleasures, thus following his maxim that to »conquer any one single bad sensation«, it is necessary to seek out »some kindly and gentle sensation«176 instead. However, Yorick is not only an ardent reader because literature affords him with pleasures that arise from beholding the beauties of language. For him, to sympathise with the characters in idea, whether theirs be a sad or a joyous situation, is a most convenient remedy against pains too acutely felt in the real world. When he fancies himself in their position, he enters into a ›waking dream‹ and so becomes insensible of his present perceptions. Remarkably, if no volume of Shakespeare is at hand, Yorick draws up fictional scenes of his own, for which canonical literature serves only as a touchstone: When evil press sore upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new course–I leave it–and as I have a clearer idea of the elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself, like Eneas, into them–I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido–and wish to recognize it–I see the injured spirit wave her hand, and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours–I lose the feelings for myself in hers–and in those affections which were wont to make me mourn for her when I was at school.177

The narrator claims that these propositional imaginations, which are loosely associated with his past readings of Virgil’s Aeneid, eliminate his own feelings by conveying to him those of a fictional other. Being now more of a sentimental writer than a sentimental reader, he not only changes places with Aeneas by following the ancient narrative, but feels into a character of that name, which he creates anew in his fancy. Due to his uncommon sensibility and vivid creative imagination, he is able to present an original and »complete image« to his readers, which Kames argued is necessary in sentimental fiction.178 Yorick gives us a quasi-visual account of the scene, translates misery into gestures of the body and suggests the fleeting succession of impressions by the ample use of hyphens. The sentimental traveller’s fiction is engaging not because of a neat relation of causally connected events, but by imitating the perspective of an intimate spectator of the principal characters. Sterne thus showcases narrative experientiality and fictionalises Kames’ notion of ideal presence. It is doubtful, however, that readers of the novel will burst into tears over this passage. By finally making Yorick point out that his feelings into Dido correspond to those of his schoolboy self, the author signals to the reader that all of the above is a mere childish fancy. _____________ 174 175 176 177 178

Cf. the current chapter, 140–141. Sterne, A Sentimental Journey, 120. Ibid., 121. Ibid., 120–121. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, 107–108.

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Notably, the moral implications of sympathetic imagination do not come into view. When Yorick feels into the queen of Carthage as well as her lost lover and annihilates himself in the process, his sympathy is truly identificatory. No comparison between their feelings and his sympathies, when in the same situation, takes place. As a result, no moral sentiments in the Smithian sense are formed. Nor is it likely that Yorick’s propositional fancy predisposes him to benevolent acts in the moral world, as Kames believed. Yorick singles out pictures of Dido’s distress only to wilfully indulge himself in sensations that cancel out his own. He welcomes that he becomes oblivious of his self when he assumes the identity of fictional characters and wholeheartedly enters into their concerns. His sympathetic imaginations cater only to his escapism. Indeed, the relation between sympathy and the fancy is reversed: to enter into a self-forgetful state of reverie is here not the requisite for sympathy in idea but, on the contrary, it is the sole purpose for which Yorick sympathises with Dido. Rather than that the propositional imagination serves the cause of sympathy, this latter becomes a function of the man of sensibility’s fancy. His sentimental fictions have but his private economy of affections in view. The implication of course is that even in social reality, Yorick does not feel with or for his fellows. Rather, he feels into his real and fictional others upon his very own terms. The one and only source of the (fellow-)feelings that he voices in his narrative is his vast propositional and thus creative imagination. With its help, he moulds and disfigures objects of sense or memory to his liking. This becomes sufficiently clear from the pivotal episode of the caged bird, an episode which yet again interrupts Yorick’s quest for a passport. The sentimental traveller chances upon an entrapped starling and, hearing it repeat over and over again the words »I can’t get out«, proclaims (not without Sternean irony): »I never had my affections more tenderly awakened«.179 To be sure, this is not really a scene of sympathy with a suffering fellow being, and for a matter of reasons. For one, the bird’s exclamation is not, or only by chance, a genuine expression of its sensations. Being without apprehension of human language, it cannot mean what it says. However, it is not only the veracity of the original affection that is doubtful, but also Yorick’s being affected on behalf of the bird. If the fate of the starling would indeed strike a sympathetic chord with him, this would put him under the moral obligation to free the bird, which he does not do, although he meditates it. His affections are thus of no ethical significance, they do however have some aesthetic purpose. Just before Yorick hears the starling’s cries, his thoughts had dwelt on the prospect of becoming a prisoner of the French king and he had reasoned with himself that »the Bastile is not an evil to be despised«.180 This does not calm down his emotions, however, which now find a welcome expression in the image of the caged bird. The life of the observer is transferred to the image he observes by sympathetic (or perhaps better: empathetic) imagination. Yorick identifies with the imprisoned starling by feeling into it. This sets his creative fancy going and he projects his reveries unto the bird. In strongly figurative lan_____________ 179 Sterne, A Sentimental Journey, 101. 180 Ibid., 100.

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guage, he muses on the subject of bondage, paints slavery as the bitter drink of thousands and panegyrises the goddess liberty with its snowy mantle untainted by words.181 Yorick thus approves himself a poet who, as Samuel Coleridge would later put it, is »informing the senses from the mind, and not compounding a mind out of the senses.«182 In other words, he turns away from sentimentalist poetics as well as their empiricist (and thus mimetic) bias. We could perhaps say that Sterne anticipates the sympathetic creative imagination of Romanticism – if only he were in earnest. As Jim Owen has argued convincingly, the entrapped bird is »an image of selfenclosure«,183 comically pointing to Yorick’s existence in an utterly subjective universe. Undoubtedly, such radical subjectivism is the object of ridicule in Sterne’s novel. The humour of the work depends largely on the mismatch that what is affecting to Yorick in his subjective mind is not affecting in itself or for the reader. Certainly, in the passage that immediately follows, it is with a laughing eye that we see this man of feeling indulging in his sympathetic imaginations: The bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. […] I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then look’d through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferr’d. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish: […] As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down– shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turn’d his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle–He gave a deep sigh–I saw the iron enter into his soul–I burst into tears–I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn–184

Again, the sentimental traveller feels into the creature of his own fancy, a man held captive, thus furnishing this character with perceptions and affections in the first place. As a result, every detail of the scene is presented most vividly, every article is described as it appears to the senses. The narrative is strongly experiential in the Kamesian sense. Remarkably, the end of the passage once again makes the reader aware that the narration is not in truth sympathetic. Yorick’s vision suddenly collapses into the ridiculous metaphor of the iron that enters the soul, a metaphor that is a little too audacious to be affecting. The narrator himself bursts into tears and thus the reader cannot shed a single one. Yorick, the whimsical yet veritable poet, demonstrates that he has sufficient sensibility and an active enough imagination to conjure up emotions without any external cause. Put differently, he is a sentimental genius much in the sense of Gerard.185 Yet Sterne also suggests that because of his sensibil_____________ 181 182 183 184 185

Cf. ibid., 101–102. Coleridge, The Table Talk, 188 (21 July 1832). Owen (2002), 26. Sterne, A Sentimental Journey, 103–104. Cf. ch. 4 in this book, 111–112.

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ity, Yorick is incapable of conceiving a cohesive narrative. The entire novel miscarries in its attempt to give a full account of his travels because the narrator is frequently interrupted by new associations or, as is the case here, an outburst of tears. Being the whining artist that he is, Yorick gives us but short sentimental scenes. In conclusion, Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey, rather than exploring the moral implications of sympathy in idea, exclusively focusses on the sympathetic imagination as a characteristic of the poetic (yet squeamish) mind. Notwithstanding that Yorick is an untypical sentimental protagonist, he would eventually find a brother in spirit in Casimir Fleetwood, the eponymous hero of Godwin’s much neglected 1805 man-of-feeling novel. As the full title of the work suggests, it likewise transforms the genre. The subtitle The New Man of Feeling has made readers wonder wherein exactly the supposed novelty consists. For Gary Handwerk and Arnold Markley, Godwin’s novel typifies »the transition under way between Enlightenment and Romanticism«,186 a shift in focus from societal to more subjective concerns. Yet Godwin, who was hugely unpopular with Romantic writers and critics, can hardly count among the movement’s leading minds.187 A figurehead of Enlightenment Radicalism, he was most famous for his rationalist ethics advocated in An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, which many of his contemporaries regarded as a too rigid and unfeeling doctrine. Thus, Godwin could not be expected to sing the praises of poetic sensibility and the sympathetic imaginations it gives rise to. Rather, Fleetwood continues Laurence Sterne’s critical exploration of the subject, albeit from a different perspective. While A Sentimental Journey had elaborated on the amoral dimensions of the sympathetic creative imagination, Godwin showcased its immoral effects. The first-person narrative of Fleetwood, who recounts his entire life history and dissects his own psyche in the process,188 attests to the fact that self-indulgent sensibility and poetic imagination can make any man a family tyrant. Godwin’s male sentimental novel, which is somewhat longer than most of its predecessors, is a meticulous study of a man of feeling’s evolving motivational structure. Though characterised by what Kames called reflective remembrance, Fleetwood’s narrative no doubt has a certain sentimental appeal. Early on in the novel, the narrator claims that his exhaustive reconstruction of his moral actions’ psychological causes shall allow readers to discern »whether I am such a one as that my errors are worthy of commiseration and pity.«189 Much in the Smithian sense, his life narrative places itself under the scrutiny of the sympathetic propositional imagination of readers, with which they are expected to determine the propriety or impropriety of his motives. _____________ 186 Handwerk/Marley, »Introduction«, in: Godwin, Fleetwood, 1–39, here 9. 187 Godwin’s unpopularity in the early nineteenth century is evident from the fact that Percy Bysshe Shelley, first addressing himself to the Enlightenment radical in a letter in 1811, wondered that he was still alive, cf. Marshall (1984), 295. 188 As shown by Scheuermann (1983), Fleetwood, like all of Godwin’s (later) novels, is a psychological inquiry into a single mind. 189 Godwin, Fleetwood, 59.

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The work puts readers in the position to feel for the tyrant protagonist where sympathy is due and disapprove of him where it is not. Fleetwood’s retrospective narrative traces the origins of his cruelty back to his childhood. Refuting Jean-Jacques Rousseau, it points out that the boy is a child of nature rather than society and that this is the cause of his vices.190 The son of a gentleman, Fleetwood grows up in a lonely place in Wales where he traverses the woods as a »solitary wanderer«191 free to follow his whims in endless hours of idleness. Mostly shunned by his father, his only companion on his rambles is an unnamed dog which, though attached to him by »a certain sympathy«192 of an instinctive nature, is a servile creature resigned to his master’s caprice. As a result, the narrator explains, »I was a spoiled child. I had been little used to contradiction«.193 Since young Fleetwood is alone in nature rather than with his fellows in society, his fancy runs free, unchecked by the censure of other minds. Placed in a state of self-indulgent reverie, Fleetwood imagines mastery of the whole world: I was engaged in imaginary scenes, constructed visionary plans, and found all nature subservient to my command. I had a wife or children, was the occupier of palaces, or the ruler of nations.194

The boy’s creative imagination feigns a universe under his command. Surveying his fictions in his day-dreams, he evades the real and instead embraces the ideal presence of things.195 Remarkably, this tendency to give precedence to the creations of the fancy over sensations of external reality is later described as the common disposition of poets. These »men of imagination« are contrasted with »men of simple perception«,196 for whom the farmer, who cultivates his land rather than his mind, serves as a prime example. However acute the senses of the ploughman, Fleetwood finds, he will not see beyond empirical reality when working in the Welsh countryside. A poet on the other hand, though he may not perceive the quality of the soil, is inspired by strong feelings on account of his active imagination, which supposedly has a privileged access to the true workings of nature at large. In the narrator’s words, »what the farmer saw was external and in the things themselves; what the poet saw was the growth and painting of his own mind.«197 Fleetwood of course identifies with the poet, whose sensibility answers to his creative imagination and so is not one of the external but of the internal senses.198 _____________ 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198

On Godwin’s engagement with Rousseau in the novel, cf. »Introduction«, in: Fleetwood, 23–27. Ibid., 54. Ibid., 55. Ibid., 54. Ibid., 56. Ibid. Ibid., 107. Ibid., 108. Bruhm (1992), focussing on two singular passages, has asserted that Godwin rewrites the notion of sensibility in the context of (self-)punishment and, more especially, bodily torture. For the sections he has in view, the mad scene especially, this argument is fairly convincing. More broadly speaking,

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Since the ›new‹ man of feeling recreates the world that surrounds him in his fancy, his sympathies likewise are fictions. Every person he meets is illuminated with the lamp of his imagination: [S]carcely any character of the smallest importance came before me, in whom, by retrospect or anticipation, by associations of pride, of instruction, or of honour, I did not make to myself a lively interest, and whom I did not involuntarily surround with an atmosphere of my own creating, which refracted the rays of light, and changed the appearances of the scene. 199

Remarkably, Godwin here makes use of the metaphor of the lamp, which according to M. H. Abrams defines the Romantic imagination.200 The lamp-like radiance of the sentimental hero’s fancy transforms his perception of his fellows and their station in life. Rather than entering into their position, he transports them to a world of fiction and so moulds them according to his liking. He projects or feels into them dispositions of pride, wisdom or honour. As the narrator remarks, the whole assembly at the House of Commons thus figures to him as »Pym and Hampden, and Falkland and Selden, and Cromwell and Vane«.201 Fleetwood indeed annexes romance and sentiment to the idea of anyone who happens to walk into the light of his poetic imagination. As a result, his world is just as radically subjective as that of Yorick in A Sentimental Journey. However, rather than making his protagonist the object of ridicule, as Sterne had done, Godwin very seriously points to the vices that spring from this poetic turn of mind. To have all people at the command of one’s fancy breeds a despotic character, the narrator finds: »The tendency, therefore, of this species of dreaming, when frequently indulged, is to inspire a certain propensity to despotism.«202 When Fleetwood settles down to a life of matrimony, this inclination to transport his fellows into images of his own mind pressures his family into submission. The final catastrophe is then but the result of his strange (sym)pathetic fictions. In the end, he wrongly accuses his faithful wife Mary of adultery and turns her out of doors penniless, thus becoming the author of her misery. The ›new‹ man of feeling is able to behave in the most unfeeling manner because his creative imagination paints to him the most improbable of injuries. At times, he is aware of this and finds that his fancy plays tricks on him when it suggests his wife’s unfaithfulness: »my sick imagination is for ever busy, shaping the attitudes and gestures which this monitor of mine saw, or pretends to have seen.«203 Fleetwood cannot sympathise and thus be_____________ 199 200

201 202 203

however, Fleetwood’s is not an acuteness of the external senses, but closely tied to his active imagining faculty. Godwin, Fleetwood, 109. Cf. Abrams (1953), esp. 57–69, where he argues that the figure of the lamp, which originates in Cambridge Platonism, was appropriated into a new popular epistemology by Romantic authors. This he describes as the shift from mimetic to expressive theories of art. Godwin, Fleetwood, 109. Ibid., 56. Ibid., 348.

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come sensible of the true feelings of his better half. Both reading her body language and assuming her attitude in idea prove unfruitful because his creative fancy ever remodels his perceptions and propositions in its poetic light. Thus, sympathy as well as sympathetic imagination in the Smithian sense cannot relieve Fleetwood of his inner torments. Encouraged by the machinations of his nephew Gifford, who seeks to inherit his fortune, Fleetwood grows so obsessed with his fancies of adultery that he finally files for divorce. Madness now encroaches upon him and he puts on a play with waxen figures that embody his wife and her supposed lover. He dramatises the pair’s courting and marriage. Despot enough to form fact like wax, Fleetwood feels into the creatures of his own making, furnishing them with life and sentiment. His sick imagination makes him perceive their gestures and chattering; to him, the adulterers are ideally present. Fleetwood completely loses himself in this poetic reverie: »I no longer distinctly knew where I was, or could distinguish fiction from reality.«204 Hence in Godwin’s eyes, the ›new‹ man of feeling, who is possessed of a poet’s sensibility, is bound to be both a villain and a madman. The (sym)pathetic imaginations of the poetic mind, which project affections and sentiments into others, are discredited as morally and psychologically dubious. Certainly, the author does not in consequence rule out sympathy proper as unethical. Although he is a moral rationalist, Godwin implies that if anything other than enlightened reason could have prevented Fleetwood from becoming a family tyrant, it were true and spontaneous fellow-feeling. Before the newly-wed sentimental hero allows his imagination to run free, what endears him to his wife were sympathetic sensations: »I sympathized in all her feelings, and was cheerful or serious, as her countenance gave me the signal to be the one or the other.«205 Indeed, initially, Fleetwood struggles to condemn his wife because her feelings speak such a plain language. She is a traditional woman of feeling who harbours but kind sentiments and professes her love to him even when fast asleep.206 Nor is the supposed seducer, Fleetwood’s nephew Kenrick, wanting in goodness and so, when he appeals to his uncle’s sympathy, he nearly convinces him of his and Mary’s fidelity. Speaking his heart, the young man makes Fleetwood forget his fictions of adultery momentarily. Overcome by spontaneous fellow-feeling, the ›new‹ man of feeling exclaims: »There is no resisting the eloquence of your emotions.«207 What exactly the concept of sympathy meant to Godwin’s ethics and why this rigid rationalist philosopher turned to writing sentimental fiction in the first place are questions that merit greater attention and will be explored in the following chapter.

_____________ 204 205 206 207

Ibid., 387. Ibid., 358. Cf. ibid., 368. Ibid., 355.

CHAPTER 6: SYMPATHY LOST AND REGAINED

William Godwin’s Perspective on the Man of Feeling On the day that marked the establishment of the First Republic of France, the American diplomat and poet Joel Barlow entertained a small group of London radicals for tea in his rooms at No. 18, Great Titchfield Street.1 The company that met in his Marylebone home this Saturday afternoon in September 1792 was illustrious. Among the callers was William Godwin, a political writer in the process of penning his philosophical magnum opus An Enquiry concerning Political Justice which would earn him the reputation of being the ›cold fish‹ among Enlightenment thinkers. His future wife Mary Wollstonecraft, another of the company, had published her muchacclaimed feminist treatise A Vindication of the Rights of Woman earlier that year.2 Thomas Holcroft, eminent playwright and close friend of Godwin’s, was a welcome guest that day, as was John ›Walking‹ Stewart, a man known for travelling from India to Europe by foot, who had recently published two philosophical volumes contending his cosmopolitan ethics.3 Major Alexander Jardine, the author of an epistolary travelogue of Morocco and Europe which comments chiefly on the topics of government and society, completed the group. Likeminded in their Republicanism as these people were, the topic addressed this afternoon over tea is likely to have sparked a debate. According to the diary of Godwin, the party conversation turned to issues related to Moral Sentimentalism. Barlow and his guests »talk of self love, sympathy & perfectibility individual & general.«4 What makes this incident so interesting is that it might represent an early watershed in Godwin’s longstanding and subtle coming to terms with the philosophies of sympathy which culminates in his novelistic engagement with the man-of-feeling genre. Before discussing how sympathy as a moral term surfaces in Godwin’s philosophical fiction, I will attempt to trace and explain the concept’s transformation in his treatise Political Justice. For this purpose, my interpretation endorses central claims of the renowned Godwin scholar Mark Philp. His 1986 seminal study gives a welldocumented account of how »Political Justice grew out of Godwin’s discussions with his friends and acquaintances«.5 On that note, I will try to assess the possible influ_____________ 1

2

3 4 5

According to Buel (2011), 140, Joel Barlow and his wife Ruth took up their lodgings at No. 18, Great Titchfield Street after leaving revolutionary Paris for London in the summer of 1791. William Godwin, who was one of the company at Barlow’s, recorded the meeting for afternoon tea in his journal, cf. Godwin, Diary, 22 September 1792. Mary Wollstonecraft completed her Vindication of the Rights of Woman in January, and by February the book was circulating in Britain, cf. the introduction by D. L. Macdonald and Kathleen Scherf in Wollstonecraft, Vindications, 13. Cf. Stewart, Travels over the Most Interesting Parts of the Globe and Apocalypse of Nature published as one work in two volumes in 1790. Godwin, Diary, 22 September 1792. Philp (1986), 82.

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ence the before-said discussion over tea at Barlow’s or, more generally, this specific network of radicals is likely to have had on Godwin’s understanding of sympathy, a point not explicitly reflected upon by Philp. In so doing, I follow another contention of this scholar, namely that there is a certain semantic drift within Political Justice.6 On this basis, I will show, firstly, that sympathy is explored from different perspectives as the focus of attention changes throughout the treatise and, secondly, that Godwin’s revaluation of this concept later in the work is influenced by his engagement with the philosophies of his acquaintances. The argument in Godwin’s multi-faceted Political Justice goes as follows. Book one begins by stressing the importance of enlightened institutions for the improvement of mankind and the inauguration of justice. This abstract notion, though not innate in the mind, represents a universal and immutable standard from which all moral virtues and duties derive. Godwin thus embraces moral realism while refuting innatism on an empiricist premise.7 In book two, developing his rationalist theory of justice, Godwin argues that our »virtuous disposition« is »principally generated by the uncontrolled exercise of private judgment«,8 which discerns the means of how to contribute everything in our power to the good of the whole. When reason is liberated of arbitrary distinctions or associations, it cannot but discover the path to virtue and so gives birth to a rational sense of right and wrong. Godwin rules out that justice’s demands can be met by the implementation of legal equality in institutional rights. Its enactment requires first-order impartiality of every individual, i.e. the abolishment of prejudice and a severe inference of personal duty in a comprehensive view of circumstances and individualities time and again, in every single case of action. Book three determines which principles government shall rest upon, followed by an exploration of man’s capacity for virtue in book four. In books five to eight, when speculating on the means of implementing justice politically, Godwin gradually realises that government is generally productive of injustice and so finally rejects it altogether. Instead, the cultivation of truth through the collision of minds9 in sincere _____________ 6

7

8 9

Philp, most poignantly in his introduction to the 2013 Oxford edition of Political Justice, xiii, has asserted that in the process of writing, Godwin »turned away from his original intention, to show the importance of political institutions to virtue […] to make a case for thinking that the development of intellect and virtue is infinitely progressive«. Godwin promotes a form of empirical rationalism. He doubts the innateness of notions such as virtue to which, according to Shaftesbury and his predecessors, a common sense of morality is believed to provide access. Also, very much against some Scottish moral sentimentalists, the author of Political Justice contests the existence of an innate moral sense from which normative conceptions may be explicated by the understanding. In spite of this scepticism, Godwin (like Shaftesbury) is a realist who believes in the immutability and universality of truth or virtue, respectively. Cf. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 59: »Morality is, if any thing can be, fixed and immutable; and there must surely be some strange deception that should induce us to give to an action eternally and unchangeably wrong, the epithets of rectitude, duty and virtue.« Ibid., 62. For a detailed account of how this theme of the ›collision of minds‹ develops out of the conversation practices in London radical circles and, more specifically, in the network of Godwin, Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Hays, cf. Mee (2011), 137–167.

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discourse and thus the moral perfectibility of society is a theme which gains momentum. By making first private judgment and then increasingly the communication community the focal point in his discussion of mankind’s advancement to virtue, Godwin little by little develops the anarchist leaning for which he is so much acclaimed. Certainly, the success of the community in aspiring to justice depends on individual improvement and vice versa, these are but two sides of one coin. The shift is one in focus and emphasis, it does not amount to a systematic re-conception. That makes it no less significant. The various and seemingly irreconcilable interpretations of sympathy in Political Justice can be explained in the light of this semantic drift. As Godwin turned his attention from philosophy to politics, he felt impelled to renegotiate his relation to Moral Sentimentalism.

Sympathy under the Lens of Radical Rationalism At the outset, the term sympathy appears to have been of no consequence to Godwin. In the first book of Political Justice, the author argues that man’s judgment alone, his success or failure to reason according to justice, determines his actions as morally good or ill. Pity, being a sympathy with distress that effects a benevolent desire to relieve the sufferer, is in no way morally significant. Godwin nonetheless goes to the trouble of explaining this phenomenon empirically. Our fellow-feeling with those that suffer, he argues, originates in the memory of our own past impressions: »The cries of distress, the appearance of agony or corporal infliction, irresistibly revive the memory of the pains accompanied by those symptoms in ourselves.«10 This epistemological explanation of pity, in its reliance on the perception of external signs, the idea of which is associated with resembling ideas of the memory, is clearly reminiscent of the respective accounts of the Scottish empiricists. Godwin might have come across such a definition when he looked into parts of David Hume’s An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals shortly before he started work on his magnum opus, or at some earlier time.11 However that may be, he strongly rejects the sentimentalist claim that human beings aspire to and discern virtue by way of their sympathy. Only the exercise of judgment and thus the successive enlightenment of the mind can be the cause of an advancement in human ethics, an advancement which, in Godwin’s eyes, is evident from historical experience.12 This vision of man’s intellectual im_____________ 10 11 12

Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 12. Cf. Godwin, Diary, 12 September 1791: »Part of Hume on Morals«. Godwin began working on Political Justice three days later, cf. ibid., 15 September 1791. In the preceding chapter on the history of political society, Godwin argues that the successive improvement of mankind through the enlightenment of the mind is evident on account of four points. Firstly, man’s moral character is formed by his perceptions, not universal propensities either virtuous or vicious, and can thus be mended. Secondly, government has great impact on individual minds; a virtuous government consequently effects virtuous characters. Thirdly, good government produces virtue not only principally, but in most individual cases as well. Lastly, Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 9, posits »that perfectibility is one of the most unequivocal characteristics of the hu-

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provement towards complete impartiality goes hand in hand with the refutation of an innate and internal sense of morality that, according to Francis Hutcheson or Lord Kames, is grounded in the general sympathising of the species. Nor is virtue a matter of intersubjective sympathies, as David Hume or Adam Smith argued. In Political Justice, sympathy is no more than an epistemological concept of function and, as such, it signifies a quasi-contagious communication of sensations from one mind to another. Even in cases in which it gives rise to the kind affections of goodwill, sympathy does not conform to »the strict and inflexible decisions of justice«, Godwin claims.13 In book two, which substantiates the first-order impartiality claim, the famous Fénelon-episode14 argues that when a fire breaks out and there is time to conduct only one person to safety, justice puts us under an obligation to save the individual of greatest value to the society, even if we should have to sacrifice our parent or benefactor: François Fénelon, the defender of human rights, has a greater claim to our aid than a chambermaid, even when this chambermaid is our own mother. Sympathy, in that it causes us to act upon the ground of natural affection or other partial feelings of goodwill, is shown to positively impair the exercise of justice. Impartial judgment and sympathy are mutually exclusive, or so it appears. As a result, the dichotomy of reason and feeling looms large in the following chapters. Affections incommensurate with considerations of general utility are at length objected to in books two to four. Philanthropy, by which Godwin understands a man of feeling’s benevolence that arises »from the physical effect of sympathy« or other partial motives, cannot be admitted virtuous; for Godwin, »[n]othing seems more inconsistent with our ideas of virtue.«15 This »unreflecting feeling« is not only contrasted with but »contradistinguished to justice«, which of course is an exclusively rational matter.16 Expectably, the »Connexion between Understanding and Virtue« is, in an excursus thus titled, characterised as fully necessary. The former upon rigorous exercise inevitably effects the latter. Individual perfectibility depends on the unconfined practice of reason and is thus at odds with spontaneous sympathy that biases our judgment. Finally, in a chapter which objects to the formation of political associations, the progressive improvement of the individual (and thus society) is said to bring about the demise of sympathy: »Reason will spread itself, and not a brute and unintelligent sympathy.«17 _____________

13 14 15 16

17

man species«. The course of the work will prove that the second and third arguments are indeed unsatisfactory; both the first and fourth point will be developed further in Godwin’s engagement with Humean philosophy. Ibid., 51. Cf. ibid., 50–51. Ibid., 143. Ibid., 146. Compare in the third book, ibid., 89: »The resolute execution of justice, without listening to that false pity, which, to do imaginary kindness to one, would lead us to injure the whole, would in a thousand ways increase the independence, the energies and the virtue of mankind.« Ibid., 121.

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Despite this categorical negation, the issue of fellow-feeling receives renewed attention when Godwin engages in questions regarding the motivational ground of human action. When working on the chapters five through nine of book four in the summer of 1792, the author’s involvement with the philosophy of sympathy deepens. We know this because Godwin’s diary offers a detailed record of his reading and writing progress that year. From mid- to late May, the author notes that he is writing »on suicide«, »on Equality«, »on Private Judgment«, and »about duty«,18 designations which presumably refer to respective chapters of book two of Political Justice.19 Then from the end of May to mid-June Godwin pens the chapters of the third book, »on the social contract«, »on Obedience, &c«, »on Promises«.20 On the 14th of June he commences the composition of the fourth book. The topics that interest him most during this time are »Self love« and »animal motion«: Godwin simultaneously writes on his confutation of egoism printed in chapter eight »Of the Principle of Virtue« and his account of necessity which is reflected in chapters five to seven, »Of Free Will and Necessity«, »Inferences of the Doctrine of Necessity« and »Of the Mechanism of the Human Mind«.21 The entries to Godwin’s journal suggest that these parts of book four of Political Justice, in which the theme of sympathy is viewed from a new perspective, grow out of his engagement with Humean philosophy. Already in March, Godwin had continued his study of EPM and read the appendix »Of SelfLove«.22 Between the 28th of June and the 25th of July, he moreover peruses Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, reading a total of 113 pages and thus the greatest part of it.23 What does Godwin the rationalist have to gain from the tenets of the sentimentalist Hume? Throughout the fourth book, Godwin emphasises the pivotal role of the understanding in motivating human action. His bold claim that our intellectual improvement effects our physical immortality24 explains his interest in animal motion and the question whether and to which extent the body can be subjected to _____________ 18 19

20 21

22 23

24

Godwin, Diary, 13, 15, 24, 27 May 1792. Namely chapter two, Appendix 1 »Of Suicide«, chapter three »Of Duty«, chapter four »Of the Equality of Mankind« and chapter six »Of the Exercise of Private Judgment«. Towards the end of May, Godwin jots down »Revise Book II, Part I«, this being the section titled »Introduction«, cf. Diary, 31 May 1792. Ibid., 29 May and 3, 4, 13 June 1792. On the 23rd of June and the 4th and 6th of July 1792, Godwin notes in his Diary that he is writing »on Self love«. On June 26th and 28th, he works »on animal motion«, and on the 11th and 12th of July he makes the note »Revise on necessity«. Though Godwin works on Political Justice continually and documents his writing progress by stating the amount of pages written on each day, not every single entry takes note of the specific topic or chapter he is concerned with. Ibid., 7 March 1792. Cf. ibid., 28 June and 13, 14, 16, 25 July 1792. David Hume’s An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, thenceforth cited as EHU, was printed in the second volume of Essays and Treatises (London 1788) on a total of 151 pages. A copy of this edition is listed in the auction catalogue of Godwin’s library, cf. Munby (1973), 277–318, here 294. In the final book of Political Justice [1793], 460, Godwin finds with Benjamin Franklin that mind must finally become omnipotent over matter: »why may not man be one day immortal?«

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human reason. He touches upon this point in his discussion of the doctrine of necessity, which he probably appropriates from Hume’s first Enquiry. On June 28, writing »of animal motion«, Godwin reads »Hume on causation«.25 This notation no doubt refers to the sections seven and eight of the Humean treatise titled »Of the Idea of Necessary Connexion« and »Of Liberty and Necessity«. What does Hume’s sensualist theory of causation import, how does it address motivational grounds, and in which ways does it relate to Godwin’s account of necessity? According to Hume, the idea of necessary connection cannot arise from impressions of sense. Causation, he believes, is not a quality which inheres in objects. Only when from experience we learn that two events customarily appear in succession, we come to associate them in such a manner as to discern one as the cause, the other as the effect. The mind forms a determination to pass from the idea of the one to the idea of the other. From this internal impression of reflection, the mind copies the idea of necessary connection. Causation then is perceived as a mental relation in the subjective mind only. The real efficacy of causes is unknown to the human understanding.26 Hume points out that this is true even of the connection of our very own motives and actions. The necessary relation between our will to raise our arm and our limb moving is known by experience.27 It is thus that we come to understand the voluntariness of actions and, as a result, moral responsibility. Man being »a mighty complicated machine«,28 the intricacies of how motion is produced from motives must remain enigmatic. However, the way in which voluntary actions proceed from particular motives exhibits sufficient uniformity to suggest the idea of moral necessity to the mind. Hume thus ascribes necessity to human volition, resolving the juxtaposition of necessary connection and free will. For him, to reconcile liberty with causal determinism is a requisite for morality. If there was no causal relation between motives and actions, then we would not be liable for our conduct, and moral good and evil would signify nothing at all.29 Appropriating Hume, Godwin endorses all these points in Political Justice30 and emphasises that animal motion, being at first involuntary, is by foresight rendered voluntary, but not less necessary.31 In consequence, he argues, bodily motion may be fully subjected to the understanding. There is a small but striking transformation at _____________ 25 26

27 28 29 30

31

Godwin, Diary, 28 June 1792. Cf. Hume, EHU, 144–145: »It appears, then, that this idea of necessary connexion among events arises from a number of similar instances which occur of the constant conjunction of these events […]. This connexion, therefore, which we feel in the mind, this customary transition of the imagination from one object to its usual attendant, is the sentiment or impression from which we form the idea of power or necessary connexion.« Cf. ibid., 137–139. Ibid., 153. We might perhaps call this a ›mild‹ determinism. In Political Justice [1793], 161, Godwin concedes: »The reader will find the substance of the above arguments in a more diffusive form in Hume’s Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, being the third part of his Essays.« Cf. ibid., 175.

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work here. While Hume supposes the nature of man’s motives to be primarily affective,32 Godwin claims that reasoning alone induces to action since »the will is merely […] the last act of the understanding«.33 The emphasis of the former is that we could never have acted otherwise when under the impression of particular emotions: sympathy produces a desire to afford relief which in consequence makes us aid the sufferer. The latter however believes that we necessarily proceed to action under the influence of intellectual evidence: understanding the duty we owe to justice impels us to rescue Fénelon rather than our mother. This is not to say that Hume denies reason’s relevance to volition, nor that Godwin entirely dismisses feelings as a function or appendix of the judgment.34 Ultimately, however, there is a disagreement concerning the nature of human motivational grounds. When acting voluntarily, is feeling man’s original stimulus or is reason the first impulse? In effect, the divide is one between a sentimentalist and a rationalist conception of moral responsibility. As Paul Russell has suggested, Hume’s theory of causation first of all provides an epistemological mechanism which serves as the basis for moral sentiments, i.e. sympathies of an impartial third.35 For Godwin, on the other hand, the doctrine of necessity feeds into his argument of first-order impartiality. Causation in the moral world is the ground upon which impartial reason apprehends actions as intending just or unjust ends. The transformation then amounts to this: Hume’s sentimentalist account of causation is rendered rationalist by being appropriated into Godwin’s theory of intellectual justice which, in turn, is interpreted in Humean necessitarian terms. This is of great consequence. Godwin can thus systematically designate moral improvement as fully necessary.36 The progress in human understanding necessarily commands an increase in just practices, because knowing virtue better impels us to act more virtuously. Thus, the advancement of political justice is truly inevitable, it does not only appear so in a historical survey. Having established the doctrine of moral necessity, Godwin revisits the question whether self-love and pity can have an intrinsic relation to vice and virtue. Again, his position appears to grow out of his engagement with Hume, and more precisely the said appendix »Of Self-Love« which he had recently studied. Here, Hume offers a vindication of innate benevolence against egoist theories, which reduce this natural principle to a sophisticated self-love that seeks gratification in moral pleasures. He _____________ 32 33 34

35 36

Hume made this very clear in THN, 2.3.3.4, by saying that »reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to volition«. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 166. When in Political Justice [1793], 146, Godwin speaks of a »sense of justice«, he does not mean an a priori moral feeling that gives us some indication of morality, but an a posteriori perception of the enlightened mind. Godwin makes it very clear that this ›sense‹ originates in and is a function of the rational assessment of justice, cf. also ibid., 143. Russell (1995), esp. 58. Locke (1980), 324–327, stresses that for Godwin, there could be no omnipotence of truth without necessity and consequently no perfectibility. If our opinions causally determine our conduct, and these necessarily come to be corrected in the collisions of mind with mind, then the improvement of man is inevitable.

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cites three commonplace arguments in the defence of man’s essential good nature, namely benevolence among animals, natural affection in parents and the subsistence of goodwill towards loved ones despite their absence or death. Finally, on the basis of his sensualist epistemology, he offers a systematic confutation of egoism.37 Interested actions, he observes, are motivated by secondary desires. Self-love can operate only when preceded by original appetites that, once they are gratified, produce a pleasure which may then be pursued from interest. The desires of hunger and thirst, he finds, have their first end in the nourishment and preservation of mankind. We seek culinary delights only after we have experienced the unforeseen pleasures of eating and make these the object of our secondary desire. Similarly, the appendix concludes, long before interested considerations of expediency enter the mind, we possess »a desire of another’s happiness or good« which derives from »the original frame of our temper«.38 Benevolence thus sides with primal appetites, it is considered a natural propensity common to all human beings. Godwin assimilates the Humean pattern of argument in chapter eight of book four to substantiate his refutation of innate principles. He finds that man cannot originally be motivated by »a very remote deduction of the intellect« as the systems of self-love would have it; with Hume, he claims that our most familiar actions are inconsistent with this explanation. We do not so much as eat and drink, from the recollection that these functions are necessary to our support.39

However, turning Hume’s own argument against him, Godwin thereby rejects not only the genuineness of self-love, but likewise that of benevolence. He strongly disapproves of the Humean conclusion that the latter is an appetite which is expressive of mankind’s natural moral goodness. To show that benevolence is a secondary desire rather than an innate impulse, Godwin makes a new attempt at defining pity – i.e. sympathy and consequent benevolence – as dependent upon the understanding rather than instinct. For this purpose, he again draws on the associationist explanations of sympathy by Hutcheson and Hume.40 To understand this let us begin with the case of an infant. Before he can feel sympathy, he must have been led by a series of observations to perceive that his nurse for example, is a being possessed of consciousness and susceptible like himself to the impressions of pleasure and pain. […] Pity is perhaps first introduced by a mechanical impression upon the organs, in consequence of which the cries uttered by another prompt the child without direct design to utter cries of his own. These are at first unaccompanied with com-

_____________ 37

38 39 40

Cf. Hume, EPM, 94: »There are bodily wants or appetites, acknowledged by every one, which necessarily precede all sensual enjoyment, and carry us directly to seek possession of the object. Thus, hunger and thirst have eating and drinking for their end; and from the gratification of these primary appetites arises a pleasure, which may become the object of another species of desire or inclination, that is secondary and interested.« Ibid., 94. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 190. Apart from Hume, the most famous representative of associationism was David Hartley. Godwin notes in his diary that while composing the fourth book, he is discussing Hartley and self-love with the radical Whig Sir James Mackintosh, cf. Diary, 10 July 1792.

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passion, but they naturally induce the mind of the infant to yield attention to the appearance which thus impressed him. In the relief he wishes to communicate is he prompted by reflecting on the pleasures of generosity? This is by supposition the first benevolent emotion he has experienced, and previously to experience it is impossible he should foresee the pleasures of benevolence.41

Godwin returns to his genetic argument from the first book of Political Justice. Again, he finds that sympathy is no more than a physical response to impressions made upon the organs. Since it is thus characterised as an instinctive animal motion unaccompanied by volition, it reaches not into the realm of moral responsibility. The sympathetic sensation by itself gives rise to no motive upon which to act benevolently. A child must first have a conception of the feeling in question and, what is more, understand that the nurse is susceptible of pleasure and pain. Godwin thus concludes that neither self-love nor benevolence answer to the name of appetite. As far as they relate to moral qualities, they are not involuntary sensations merely, but voluntary »perceptions […] accompanied with the idea of something as true respecting them, something which may be affirmed or denied.«42 In other words, benevolent affection, like self-love, is based on an affirmative judgment and is thus the child of the understanding. An even greater point of friction between Hume and Godwin is of course the question of moral discernment. The former’s assumption that the propositional imagination of a triadic relation of sympathies produces a moral sentiment, which alone determines virtue, is at conflict with the rationalist theory developed in Political Justice. For instance, in the section on necessity discussed above, Hume asserts that the »real distinction between vice and virtue« is evidently »founded in the natural sentiments of the human mind« which, he adds, »are not to be controuled or altered by any philosophical theory or speculation whatsoever.«43 Godwinian justice, on the other hand, relies exactly on such reasonings, namely speculations regarding an action’s conduciveness to general utility. In the eyes of Godwin, mankind comes to understand – not feel – the effectual means of promoting virtue better and better in the course of time, that is: in proportion as truth evinces itself in sound private judgment or the public collision of minds. In summary, we can say that Godwin’s transformation of Humean ethics is highly selective. In its constitutive features, the philosophy of sympathy proves irreconcilable with his enterprise. Justice can do without the help of fellow-feeling, or so it appears. If we imagine the scene on the 22nd of September in Marylebone at Barlow’s, what is Godwin’s position likely to have been when debating self-love, sympathy and the perfectibility of individuals as well as society? Considering the first four books of Political Justice, which he had finished in draft at this point, he might well have said that self-love is no original human propensity and that – since it is founded on opinions which may be corrected by reason – it cannot serve as an objection against the _____________ 41 42 43

Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 189–190. Ibid., 185. Hume, EHU, 164.

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inevitable moral improvement of mankind.44 Sympathy, on the other hand, cannot be the means of man’s aspiration to virtue, as it is an involuntary and quasicontagious response only. The advancement of society depends upon everyone’s ardent exercise of impartial judgment and the collision of minds in free discourse, practices which inevitably bring immutable truth and justice to the fore. All this he would probably have delivered in the frank and simple style which characterises Political Justice. Godwin at this stage trusted much to the »charm in sincerity«45 and was sceptical towards great art and elocution.46 Judging by the then recent publications of John ›Walking‹ Stewart and Mary Wollstonecraft, it is hard to see how Godwin’s claims could have remained undisputed in the circle that met this afternoon. Jardine47 and Barlow48 had not published anything on the subject at this time, which makes their position difficult to grasp. Holcroft’s standpoint49 is equally unsure. Perhaps he would have said with his novelistic heroine Anna St. Ives: »I really do not know what to say to it; but there appears to be something deeper in the doctrine of sympathies«.50 Stewart however had a lot to say about sympathy and its relation to self, these being indeed the pivots of his philosophy. The two-volume work he had just seen to the press, which professes a cosmopolitan ethics, is remarkable for both its traditionalism in terms of philosophy and its radicalism in what regards politics. The first volume titled Travels over the Most interesting Parts of the Globe is a curious travelogue taking »a general view of the state of virtue or sympathy and probity of the different nations«.51 All countries but England and France, the two enlightened nations, are here accused of upholding vice and injustice by political sanction. Following this _____________ 44

45 46 47 48

49

50 51

Godwin makes a note in his diary whenever he begins a new book of Political Justice. He apparently starts working on book five in early August and by the 28th of September, he makes notes for book six, cf. Diary, 9 August and 28 September 1792. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 200. Cf. ibid., 135–142, 200. To my knowledge, Jardine never wrote on the topic of sympathy and self-love in a systematic manner. The British talk of sympathy seems not to have struck a sympathetic chord with their American host Joel Barlow, who would later in his poem The Columbiad, 298, reject the concept in favour of self-love as the only true means of promoting virtue: »But why to sympathy for guidance fly, / (Her aids uncertain and of scant supply) / When your own self-excited sense affords / A guide more sure, and every sense accords? / Where strong self-interest, join’d with duty, lies, / Where doing right demands no sacrifice, / Where profit, pleasure, life-expanding fame / League their allurements to support the claim, / Tis safest there the impleaded cause to trust; / Men well instructed will be always just.« In any case, Godwin must have been long familiar with the views of his constant companion. The two were very close at this time as Godwin’s diary shows. This has led Marshall (1984), 87, to conclude that Holcroft had the greatest influence on Godwin while penning Political Justice. Regarding the question of sympathy, however, it seems that the first edition of the work appropriates motifs from Hume, Stewart and, perhaps less so, from Wollstonecraft. Holcroft, Anna St. Ives, I, 37. This novel was published in February 1792 and thus only seven months before the meeting at Barlow’s. Stewart, Travels, 246.

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diagnosis, the second volume called Apocalypse of Nature establishes a system of morality that hinges on the relation between the cosmos and the self. For the author of Political Justice, coming from a Humean background, self as in self-love most likely meant a bundle of perceptions collected in the memory. Love towards such a self would find expression in voluntary desires towards pleasures known from experience to provide gratification. This sensualist conception is strongly rejected by Stewart, who – similar to Lord Shaftesbury – draws on an ancient notion of selfhood: »Self is that link, that connects man with nature; and though its vibration is strong upon the sense of feeling, thought can give it no form.«52 In Stoic-Neoplatonic manner, Stewart supposes that the cosmos is like one living being or self, to which the selves of its parts are intrinsically linked by universal sympathy: This universal identity or unity of all nature has also the proofs of probability from intellectual inference, it demonstrates itself plainly to the senses by sympathy. The cries of an animal suffering pain, affect with pain every sensitive animal within its hearing; and the acclamation of joy affects with pleasure in the same manner, though not so generally. If A feels the pain of B, and the latter only feels the cause, there must be an occult relation between the two bodies; and this can be explained only by supposing them parts of the same integer, and their specific identities and bodies component parts of the universal mass and identity of nature.53

Personal identity is not fixed by mind or matter, both of which are subject to continuous change. The self is placed in a system of things all of which are co-sensitively interconnected. Such natural selfhood requires of us to rationally affirm a life according to nature, which includes sympathising with our fellows as well as other species. According to this monist perspective, to disregard our self, and thus our relation to others, means to risk the ›apocalypse of nature‹. Stewart from thence concludes that the »truest moral axiom […] is, that true self love and social is the same«.54 Once we realise that self is embedded in sympathetic nature, our love of self coincides with our fellow-feeling with the whole. Ill-will towards another, even if it is only to a fly, necessarily harms our self, since this bears a relation to all sensitive beings.55 In the virtuous mind, sympathetic world coherence, which can be felt everywhere, is the object of continuous contemplation. Sympathy, when reflected in the view of the whole, »expands to the great circle of sensitive Nature, and dries up the source of evil with the ardour of its benevolence«.56 This philosophical structure resembles and is reminiscent of what Lord Shaftesbury termed the friend of mankind.57 Stewart agrees with him that genuine philanthropy, which he calls the ideal of intellectual existence, _____________ 52 53 54 55

56 57

Stewart, Apocalypse of Nature, 52. Ibid., 58–59. Ibid., 92. Stewart’s story of the fly stresses that through his self, man is connected not only to his species, but all sentient nature and thus violence against the tiniest of creatures shakes the chain of all beings, cf. ibid., 207. Ibid., 73. Cf. ch. 2 in this book, 38.

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is constituted by a genuine »sympathy with the whole« rather than partial fellowfeeling.58 Embracing this ancient tradition, the last disciple of which was the author of Characteristicks, Stewart bases his moral system on a cosmological understanding of both sympathy and self. Would the recital of Stewart’s tenets that one afternoon in September 1792 have struck a sympathetic chord with Godwin? Again, selfhood as defined in Apocalypse of Nature is alien to his thinking. Already during their first meeting earlier that year, as Godwin notes in his journal, he and Stewart had discussed the issue of self-love and they frequently returned to debating the subject.59 On the first day of August, Godwin apparently started reading Stewart’s ethical theory60 and nine days later he made objections to it: »Stuart calls: tell him of his errors.«61 Despite the fact that Godwin found Stewart’s conservative notion of selfhood erroneous, he apparently was more or less convinced by his claim that a general sympathising interconnects all nature. In the fifth book of Political Justice, which he conceives between the 9th of August and the 27th of September,62 this being precisely the time in which he reads Stewart and attends the meeting at Barlow’s, he elaborates on a cosmological conception of sympathy. His larger aim here is to ascertain how the legislative and executive powers of the state can best be conformed to immutable justice. More specifically, chapter fifteen of book five offers a refutation of the claim that, if the people were not held in awe by the artifices of government and religion, their irregular passions could not be restrained, thus causing the social order to collapse. The threat of future retribution especially, Godwin believes, is a speculation that is unnecessary for attaching _____________ 58 59

60

61 62

Stewart, Apocalypse of Nature, 120. According to his Diary, Godwin met Stewart on 12 February 1792 at Holcroft’s, where Jardine was also present. The four men »talk of self love, free will & immortality.« They return to the discussion of self-love on the 26th of February and Stewart calls on Godwin to »talk of self« on the 5th of September. As the editors of Godwin’s Diary have remarked, Godwin misspells Stewart’s name until late 1793. All entries referring to meetings with ›Walking‹ Stewart up until this point read »Stuart«. This misspelling, I would like to argue, has found its way also into Godwin’s memorandums of his reading. Rather than safely assuming, as the editors have done, that Godwin studies Gilbert Stuart in the summer of 1792, my educated guess would be that these entries refer to ›Walking‹ Stewart. There are good reasons for this. Firstly, Godwin’s reading of »Stuart« and his encounters with »Stuart« alias Stewart very often coincide. For instance, on 1 August 1792, Godwin writes: »Stuart, 137 pages. Stuart calls.« Since it is safely established that the caller is John Stewart, Gilbert Stuart having been dead since 1786, why should the reading in question not likewise refer to ›Walking‹ Stewart? Secondly, Stewart’s Apocalypse of Nature is mentioned in this context. On the 5th of September, Godwin notes »Apocalypse, 34 pages […] Stuart calls, talk of self« and then again on the next day »Stuart, 29 pages«. The editors believe the former entry refers to the Old Testament, which seems very unlikely. More probably, this is a reference to Apocalypse of Nature, in which self, the topic of this day’s discussion with Stewart, is a pivotal concept. I believe it is safe to assume that Godwin reads this work between 1 August and 12 September 1792, cf. Diary, 1, 2 August and 5, 6, 12 September 1792. To be sure, since Stewart published his work anonymously, Godwin could not have remarked his misspelling of the author’s name simply by looking at the title page of the book. Ibid., 10 August 1792. Cf. ibid., 9 August 1792. Godwin first makes »notes for Book VI« on 28 September 1792.

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our minds to public weal. By contrast, universal sympathy is a proper object of our moral reflections: Human beings are placed in the midst of a system of things, all the parts of which are strictly connected with each other, and exhibit a sympathy and unison by means of which the whole is rendered intelligible and as it were palpable to the mind. The respect I shall obtain and the happiness I shall enjoy for the remainder of my life are topics of which my mind has a complete comprehension. I understand the value of plenty, liberty and truth to myself and my fellow men.63

At this stage, justice is no longer abstractly considered as a thing in itself, as was the case in the first half of the book. The focus is now on the political individual and how he comes to understand justice and its demands. Unlike the inconceivable fiction of an afterlife, the sympathetic interconnection of all things is apprehensible. By considering our place in this scheme of nature and anticipating the pleasures of society and approbation, we become sensible of the value of public good. Sympathies in nature, Godwin claims, make us understand and – if the term »palpable« may be given some emphasis – feel the unity and interconnection of the whole. Surprisingly, in agreement with the argument made in Apocalypse of Nature, Godwin acknowledges that cosmic sympathy has some role in inspiring us with a sense of justice or public weal. He does not however conclude that to appeal to his reader’s feelings is thus highly significant, as did Stewart. While Godwin trusts in the power of sincerity and is convinced that truth can plainly be told, Stewart – who discusses the topic of sincerity with Godwin that summer64 – is sceptical towards the intelligibility of language and warns that we must avoid »falling into the error supposing the import of words fixed«.65 He insists that abstract terms such as justice might mean a great many things to different people, namely as they are more or less enlightened by reason. The philosopher must take recourse to »dialectic« and »circumlocution«66 to make his readers understand moral truths.67 Additionally, like his predecessor Lord Shaftesbury, Stewart resorts to rhapsody to prompt his readers to enter into a reasonable sympathy with the cosmos. Very unlike Political Justice, his work defies the name of treatise both in structure and style. Rather than just reporting his reflections to his readers, Stewart pursues literary strategies to sympathetically convey the immutable notions he contemplates. Most notably, he frames his work by two so-called invocations, one of truth at the beginning of volume one and another of self that concludes the second book. The first of these begins with an apostrophe which, summoning the presence of the personified addressee, stresses how truth is largely inexpressible in language.68 Truth, which manifests itself in the imagery of a _____________ 63 64 65 66 67 68

Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 272. Cf. Godwin, Diary, 29 July 1792. Stewart, Apocalypse of Nature, 158. Ibid., 160. Stewart appears to use the term dialectic in a pre-Kantian sense. According to him, dialectic conclusions are no mere paralogisms. Rather, they establish the truth of self. Cf. Stewart, Travels, iv.

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radiating sun, is called upon as an inspiring muse in what serves as a prelude to the work. The second invocation, which concludes the whole, calls upon self, the »comprehensible deity«,69 to arise in the mind of the reader and thus ›performs‹ its recognition, as it were. This enthusiastic sermon closes with a poem in eight verses which chants the sympathetic connection of self and all nature while it condemns violence committed towards our fellow-creatures. Thus, Truth is summoned as an inspirer and muse of the author, while Self manifests itself in a homily which intends an affective reader response.70 No doubt, when disputing Moral Sentimentalism at Barlow’s, Stewart is likely to have demonstrated his belief – namely that the recognition of cosmic sympathy elicits a true self-love which equals universal sympathy – in an enthusiastic style. Mary Wollstonecraft, on the other hand, would have chosen a more sober approach. In her recently published feminist treatise, which Godwin read earlier that summer,71 she professes to ask but »plain questions« in order to rule out prevalent prejudices and thus evince »simple truths«.72 On this Saturday afternoon at Barlow’s, putting down her cup of tea, what is she likely to have replied to the deliberations of Godwin and Stewart? For the most part, the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman shares their rationalist claims. She too asserts »that from the exercise of reason, knowledge and virtue naturally flow«.73 Her enterprise of course is to promote gender equality and thus she refutes the prejudice that reason is the domain of men as much as sensibility is the chief characteristic of the female sex. Her critique is that custom forces women to focus exclusively on society and sentiment, which makes them fickle and allows them no self-determination. Since they are never by themselves and thus at liberty to reflect upon their sentiments in private soliloquy, Wollstonecraft reasons, women can form no desires or goals. Kept in a state of unreflective sensibility, women cannot determine, let alone express and obtain what it is that they want.74 On the same note, Wollstonecraft censures the self-imposed immaturity of men of feeling, who cultivate a delicacy of the senses rather than their judgment. This turn of mind, she remarks, is common in »poets, painters, and composers.«75 The (new) man of feeling, along with the sentimentalist ethics and poetics that he epitomises, finds no favour with Wollstonecraft. _____________ 69 70 71 72 73 74

75

Stewart, Apocalypse of Nature, 279. Later, when Godwin acknowledges the limits of sincerity in his novel Caleb Williams, he would likewise feel the need to ›perform‹ his philosophical tenets. Cf. Godwin, Diary, 13, 14 June 1792. Wollstonecraft, Vindications, 79. Ibid. Cf. ibid., 133: »Women […] by living more with each other, and being seldom absolutely alone, they are more under the influence of sentiments than passions. Solitude and reflection are necessary to give to wishes the force of passions, and to enable the imagination to enlarge the object, and make it the most desirable.« Ibid., 141. Wollstonecraft believes that men of feeling are characterised by a creative sensibility exclusive to the genius. Her argument is thus reminiscent of Alexander Gerard or Laurence Sterne, compare ch. 4, 111–112, and ch. 5, 147–156, in this book.

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She is not, however, such a ›cold fish‹ as Godwin. To her mind, there is room for the sweet sensations of sympathy under the roof of ruling reason. Above all, the relationship between the sexes should be characterised by mutual fellow-feeling. When both man and woman cultivate their judgment, they will understand and thus be in sympathy with each other: The man who can be contented to live with a pretty, useful companion, without a mind, hast lost in voluptuous gratifications a taste for more refined enjoyments; he has never felt the calm satisfaction, that refreshes the parched heart, like the silent dew of heaven, – of being beloved by one who could understand him. – In the society of his wife he is still alone, unless when the man is sunk in the brute. ›The charm of life,‹ says a grave philosophical reasoner, is ›sympathy; nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feeling with all the emotions of our own breast‹.76

As is evident from the fact that Wollstonecraft explicitly cites Adam Smith’s The Theory of Moral Sentiments, she conceives of sympathy not as a natural co-affectability, as Stewart had done, but a reflected feeling or liking. She is a spokeswoman of the ›new‹ eighteenth-century notion of sympathy as much as Stewart is an advocate of the ›old‹ conception, the origins of which reach back to antiquity. However, though Wollstonecraft assimilates Smith’s definition of sympathy as an approving fellowfeeling, she does not follow his assertion that the sympathetic imagination of an impartial third is the means through which we acquire a sense of right and wrong.77 As a rationalist, she regards sentiment as an insufficient ground for morality. For her, virtue is the domain of reason alone. She agrees with the Scottish philosopher, however, that the social affections and passions arise from dyadic rebounds of sympathy. Especially, the affectionate ties that exist between lovers rely on a sympathetic union of sentiments.78 In other words, their love is a love of approbation. Ideally, the relationships of family members should be of the same quality: »Natural affection, as it is termed, I believe to be a very faint tie, affections must grow out of the habitual exercise of a mutual sympathy«.79 While the moral sense philosophers insisted that natural affection such as parents exhibit towards their offspring is the paragon of a human sympathy that interconnects the species, Wollstonecraft by contrast thinks that parental feeling is too feeble to be a remedy against a parent’s self-love. The unison of sentiments only, »a new mutual sympathy«,80 will create a strong and lasting affection among parents and children. Morally speaking, however, all of this is irrelevant. Though we must »feel as men feel before we can judge of their feelings«,81 our judgment is strictly rational. Sympathy provides our mind with a perception of another’s motive, but it is up to reason to judge whether that motive is in accordance _____________ 76 77 78 79 80 81

Wollstonecraft, Vindications, 171. Compare ch. 4 in this book, 91. For an informative account of how Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman responds to Smith’s perspective on gender in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, cf. Leddy (2013). Wollstonecraft, Vindications, 244. Ibid. Ibid., 196

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with virtue. Wollstonecraft’s ›sentimentalism‹, if we want to call it that, is without doubt subjected to her rationalist ethics. The moral progress of mankind, she believed, and would have insisted during her meeting with Godwin, Stewart and others, chiefly depends on the advancement of reason: »Reason is, consequentially, the simple power of improvement; or, more properly speaking, of discerning truth.«82 Wollstonecraft’s position on self-love is more difficult to grasp, as Sylvana Tomaselli has noted,83 but it appears that she was not entirely opposed to Stewart’s opinion. In her earlier A Vindication of the Rights of Man, the author makes the differentiation between a blind and an enlightened love of self. While the former pursues narrow self-interest, the latter requires that »I submit«, as Wollstonecraft says, »to unerring reason« so that all »feelings […] rest on justice as their foundation«.84 A habit of reasoning justly allows us to reverence our self. Such enlightened self-love forces me to see; and, if I may venture to borrow a prostituted term, to feel, that happiness is reflected, and that, in communicating good, my soul receives its noble ailment [read aliment, my note].85

Wollstonecraft finds that true self-love implies a moral perception or feeling that arises from the reflection that our actions are reasonable and thus contribute to the good of society. Given Wollstonecraft’s rationalist approach and her stated aversion to the term feeling, this moral pleasure is perhaps best understood as a function of reason, not a pre-reflective internal sensation. In conclusion, Wollstonecraft might well have agreed with Stewart on ›enlightened‹ self-love, i.e. a love towards the self’s relation to the species or the all of sensitive nature. Also, Godwin’s perspective on justice as the fixed star of mankind’s moral progress, which is accomplished by the advancement of reason, would certainly have gained her applause. Yet she would have insisted that the union of sentiments from mutual sympathies is what makes up intimate relations and, in consequence, forms the cement of society. Moreover, she might have argued, without entering into the feelings of others by way of sympathy, our judgment can never be just, since it is first of all our emotions (rather than our opinions or beliefs) that motivate our moral actions. What could Godwin’s reply have been to these thoughts? Wollstonecraft’s strong influence on her future husband and her bringing about his so-called ›sentimental turn‹ is one of the longstanding myths of literary history. I will try to put this narrative into perspective further below. Here, it will suffice to point out the fact that when they got together at Barlow’s in September 1792, the future lovers had rarely met before and were far from intimate.86 Systematically speaking, the question _____________ 82 83 84 85 86

Ibid., 127. Ibid., ix–x. Ibid., 34. Ibid., 34. The misspelling in Tomaselli’s edition is unfortunate, compare the first edition published in London in 1790: Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Men, 79. For a precise account of how Godwin’s and Wollstonecraft’s acquaintance developed from one of reservation to one of intimacy, cf. the introduction in Letters of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft, 1–7.

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is whether the latter half of Political Justice comments on the issue of rebounding sympathies that Wollstonecraft feels strongly about. Indeed, at one point in the concluding part of his treatise, the author carefully examines the significance of mutual fellow-feeling. Godwin, as could be expected, is sceptical towards any such partiality, because it may be injurious to our impartial reason and allegiance to justice. However, for persons that are already virtuous, he makes an exception. Godwin is ready to concede that »to sympathise with a man of merit«87 is legitimate since – unlike partial sympathies with those that fall short of virtue – it is in best accordance with the demands of justice. In this singular case, both persons partake in virtue and in this they sympathise.88 Moreover, Stewart and Wollstonecraft appear to have persuaded Godwin to rethink the issue of self-love. The last book of Political Justice titled »Of Property« weighs the »limits of individuality«89 against »the limitations of the social principle«90 and thus explores how selfish and public interests may be conducive or detrimental to justice. In the virtuous self, Godwin finds, contemplations of general utility give rise to self-gratifying moral pleasures. Thus considered, love of self is equivalent to an unlimited sympathy that extends towards all: »But virtue is a charm that never fades. The soul that perpetually overflows with kindness and sympathy, will always be cheerful.«91 Yet where Godwin remains at odds with his future lover is the question of moral necessity. Wollstonecraft argues that we need to have some sense of what another feels before we can judge of his character. Emotion, namely, is the spring of moral action and it is this for which we are judged. Godwin, who is more of a Stoic in this point, holds that moral discernment is altogether rational, because its objects are opinions which are either true or false. Our feelings, he might say, follow on the heels of our doxa and so these latter only need to be put under scrutiny. Certainly, after the discussion with Stewart, Wollstonecraft, and others on the 22nd of September 1792, Godwin devoted more attention to the phenomenon of sympathy in the second half of Political Justice.92 Nonetheless, he held on to his staunch rationalism for a little while longer. Only when Godwin attempted to translate his moral philosophy into fiction and was confronted with questions of character motivation, he became aware of the significance of sympathy and the sympathetic imagination, respectively. _____________ 87 88 89 90 91 92

Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 456. By the by, this is what Aristotle, Cicero and their disciple Shaftesbury call friendship, cf. ch. 2 in this book, 31–32. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 452. Ibid., 456. Ibid., 461–462. Interestingly, very soon after having carried the manuscript of Political Justice to the publisher (Diary, 27 January 1793: »Carry my book to Chauvelin’s.«), Godwin resumes his study of Hume on three consecutive days, cf. ibid., 30, 31 January and 1 February 1793. Apart from two essays on politics, he again peruses EPM. Thus, his engagement with the philosophy of sympathy continues immediately after the completion of his magnum opus. Perhaps Godwin felt that he had dismissed Moral Sentimentalism too easily?

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Reasonable Fellow-Feeling: Godwin’s ›Sentimentalism‹ Revisited Godwin’s first major novel Things as They Are; or, The Adventures of Caleb Williams, which he began to compose three months after completing his philosophical treatise,93 is no doubt a fictionalisation of the tenets advocated in Political Justice. It enlarges on the difficulty of instituting justice politically and, as such, continues Godwin’s involvement with the theme of sympathy. Following Philp, the interdependent relationship of the two works has been widely acknowledged.94 There is a general consensus that the novel, far from being a mere roman à thèse, modifies central claims and preconfigures the changes Godwin makes to Political Justice for a second edition. Initially, however, Godwin had a very clear conception of how to translate his philosophical thought into fiction. When he made conceptual notes for the novel on three demy papers, as he later recalled,95 he sketched the events of book three first, then conceived the second and finally the first volume. Godwin works backwards from solution to problem and so, unsurprisingly, the first-person narrative he thereafter composes is proleptic. The young manservant Caleb Williams, who has long suffered calumny, attempts to vindicate himself by laying bare »the vigilance of tyranny«96 that reigns in a society corrupted by ill institutions. In retrospect, he tells the story of his master Ferdinando Falkland, whose seeming sensibility of the distresses of others is unmasked as a regard for the code of chivalry. When the openly vicious neighbouring squire Tyrell, who serves as Falkland’s foil in the story, humiliates him in public, Falkland commits murder to revenge his honour. Once the servant Caleb finds out the secret of his guilt, Falkland frames him for theft and a tale of flight and pursuit commences which surveys the injustice of the English legal and executive systems. Thus, the novel calls for political reform on the grounds of a standard of justice which can be apprehended by impartial reason. However, despite the proleptic structure of the work and its overt intent, Godwin finally discards the original denouement of the novel. This ›mystery‹ of the two alternative conclusions has attracted many interpretations since the discovery of the manuscript ending in the 1960s.97 Godwin’s original postscript portrays the eponymous hero as the forsaken and unpitied victim of tyranny whose frank tale of his master’s murder fails to pass for the truth in the eyes of the world. In sharp contrast, the published work is given a ›sentimental‹ conclusion, in which Caleb spontaneously sympathises with his oppressor and accuses himself for having _____________ 93 94

95

96 97

Cf. Godwin, Diary, 22 April 1793. Cf. Philp (1986), 106–109. Among others, Gary Handwerk (1993) agreed with Philp that the novel translates Godwin’s political and philosophical concerns into the personal relationship of Caleb and Falkland. This recollection was originally printed, perhaps not entirely by chance, in Godwin’s 1832 preface to Fleetwood: or, The New Man of Feeling, a novel which, as shown previously, continues to problematise the question of sympathy, cf. »Appendix A«, in: Caleb Williams, eds. Handwerk/Markley, 443– 450, esp. 445–446. Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 5. Dumas (1966) was the first to publish these papers.

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brought the benevolent philanthropist Ferdinando Falkland to worldly (in-)justice. Why does the author deviate from his original conception? It is an established commonplace that the rewriting of the postscript marks Godwin’s turn towards sentimental fiction and many have thereby concluded that it indicates his departure from rationalism. Although surely the published denouement is a further proof of the author’s coming to terms with the philosophy of sympathy, the crucial question is whether this new penchant for sentimentalism means that Godwin turns his back on rationalism altogether and, what is more, moral realism.98 My interpretation of Caleb Williams, which also considers the changes made to the second edition of Political Justice, argues against numerous scholars who have attempted to classify the novelist Godwin as an advocate of Moral Sentimentalism proper. Beverly Sprague Allen was the first to regard Godwin as a disciple of this philosophical school in that he traced sentimental elements in his novels in a somewhat structuralist manner.99 Since then, a handful of essays has more specifically connected Caleb Williams with Adam Smith’s account of triadic sympathy.100 Yet although the rebound of sympathies and its crucial function to generate social norms is explored in Godwin’s novel, Smith’s sympathetic imagination of the impartial spectator, which discovers not only what is honourable in the eyes of a specific society, but what is morally right, seems to be altogether absent from the work. This however is the one distinctive feature of Smith’s theory. In any case, Godwin apparently did not read The Theory of Moral Sentiments until after seeing his novel to the press.101 My understanding is that the ›sentimental‹ aspects of Caleb Williams are not so much owing to the author’s direct perusal of Scottish moral philosophy, which was alien to his thinking, but his engagement with a poetics of sympathy. Monika Fludernik has suggested that the way in which Godwin comments on co-affectability in his novel is reminiscent of Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful and that consequently, the concept is more specifically linked to the theatre and the sublime.102 Certainly, Godwin had read the first 26 pages of Burke’s Enquiry in the summer of 1792 and thus probably just about the _____________ 98

Fairclough (2013), esp. 98–99, has answered this in the negative. She suggested that though Godwin eventually concedes to the importance of sympathy for collective behaviour, he always regards it as endangering justice. However, as I argue further below, Godwin acknowledges that justice can become manifest in existential sympathy which arises in cases of life and death. 99 Cf. Allen (1918). 100 In comparing Godwin with Jane Austen or Sir Walter Scott and Mary Shelley respectively, Shaw (1988) and Bour (2005) claimed that Godwin advocates an ›altruism‹ based on Adam Smith’s notion of sympathy. By contrast, Ward (2005) asserted that Godwin’s radicalism becomes a radicalism of the heart due to the influence of, chiefly, Rousseau and Wollstonecraft. 101 As he notes in his Diary, Godwin read Smith’s ethical theory up until page 60 on the 19th of July 1794, more than two months after having completed his novel. 102 Cf. Fludernik (2001b). Fludernik (2001a) also addressed the notorious link between sympathy and the spectacle and how this relation surfaces in Adam Smith’s The Theory of Moral Sentiments as compared to Godwin’s Caleb Williams.

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small chapter on sympathy,103 but it does not seem to me that the Burkean concept, which trusts everything to propositional imagination and nothing to sensation, is at the bottom of the mystery of the discarded denouement: Caleb’s sudden fellowfeeling responds to the visible marks of Falkland’s misery and is thus an instance of sympathetic sensation. Rather, as I suggest in the following, Caleb Williams and its reworked ending represent Godwin’s engagement with the man-of-feeling genre, in which Moral Sentimentalism had been critically examined. During the first six months of writing his novel, from May to October 1793, Godwin reads works of prose fiction the principal characters of which are male sentimental heroes, namely Sarah Fielding’s David Simple, Samuel Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison, Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey and Henry Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling.104 For certain, since the said books are quite out of the way of the philosopher’s usual reading, we can assume that he was gathering material for the conception of his novelistic hero Ferdinando Falkland. When Godwin thus assimilates motifs from the male sentimental novel into his philosophical fiction, which is characterised by Enlightenment rationalism, repercussions abound. This has not yet been the object of a close study.105 First, what is Godwin’s perspective on the novel as a literary genre? The full title of the work under consideration, Things as They Are; or, The Adventures of Caleb Williams,106 suggests that what distinguishes novelistic writing in the eyes of the author is its realism, its ability to produce a representation of the world as it is. By providing a fictional tale that ›anchors‹ in political reality, the novel allows Godwin to advance the critique of Political Justice from an empirical stance. In trying his hand at realist fiction, he gives a new dimension to his philosophy. While his treatise employs an objective vantage point, his fictional narrative reformulates the Godwinian conclusions from a first-person perspective. Thus, Caleb Williams fictionalises first-order impartiality and shows how it struggles under prejudices and the coercion of corrupt institutions. Together with the sentimental motifs assimilated from the man-offeeling novel, this change of viewpoint is able, I believe, to account for the revisions of the postscript and Political Justice. Philp discusses the corrections to the treatise for a second and third edition at great length.107 For my purpose, it will suffice to refer to Godwin’s own list of points in which his treatise needed to be reworked. In a handwritten note, Godwin mentions three blemishes that deformed his Political Justice to some degree: The Enquiry Concerning Political Justice I apprehend to be blemished principally by three errors: 1) Stoicism, or an inattention to the principle, that pleasure and pain are the only bases upon which morality can rest; 2) Sandemanianism, or an inattention to the princi-

_____________ 103 Godwin, Diary, 11 July 1792. 104 Cf. ibid., 17 May, 21 May to 7 June, 19, 20 June, 30 September to 15 October 1793. 105 Philp (1986), 165, hints at the influence of sentimental fiction on Godwin’s philosophical thought only in passing. 106 The full title is abbreviated in the definitive edition of Caleb Williams (London 1831). 107 Cf. Philp (1986), 142–167.

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ple, that feeling, not judgment, is the source of human actions; 3) The unqualified condemnation of the private affections.108

Godwin concedes that he was inattentive towards the significance of internal sensations in what regards morality, necessity and subjectivity. The category of emotion, as I have pointed out earlier, is not absent from the original version of Political Justice, but its relevance to morals, human motivation and self-consciousness was fundamentally reassessed. As Philp convincingly argued, the fact that Godwin revisits Humean philosophy cannot explain the changes: »Scepticism and rationalism are not natural bedfellows.«109 A more likely candidate he might have turned to when revising the whole and trying to tie the loose ends together is the moral realist Shaftesbury, as I have argued elsewhere.110 Philp however concluded that the reconception reflects Godwin’s changing social milieu and the ›sentimental‹ preferences of his new acquaintances. According to him, it is above all Mary Wollstonecraft who is responsible for the reworking of Political Justice. As shown earlier, the influence of Stewart and Wollstonecraft, both of whom were rationalist philosophers, is already apparent in the second half of the treatise. Also, we should proceed with caution and not trust too much to the personal myth that Godwin created in the second edition of Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1798): »Her taste awakened mine; her sensibility determined me to a careful development of my feelings.«111 Godwin’s retrospective assessment of his relationship to his deceased wife is somewhat problematic. When he genders reason male and sensibility female, Godwin does not only ignore Wollstonecraft’s rationalist ethics, he also works against her feminist project.112 Nor do the historical facts fit Philp’s (or Godwin’s) narrative. The author started revising Political Justice immediately after having finished his novel Caleb Williams on the 24th of March 1794 and long before Wollstonecraft and Godwin began meeting on a regular basis. When their relationship made a fresh start in early 1796, they had not seen each other since the afore-mentioned meeting at Barlow’s.113 It seems more plausible to suspect that the author, at least insofar as the second edition of Political Justice is concerned, saw the need to rectify certain philosophical blemishes that had become apparent in his recent attempt at realist fiction with a sentimental conclu_____________ 108 Qtd. after ibid., 142. 109 Ibid., 143. 110 Godwin became interested in Shaftesbury’s philosophy when composing the third book of Caleb Williams, cf. Barton (2018a). Some thoughts on the Godwinian novel presented in this article have found their way into the current chapter. Cf. also Micklich (2018) who, pointing out the contrasts between the two writers, contradistinguishes Shaftesbury’s poetics of affection from Godwin’s rhetoric of co-affection. 111 Godwin, Memoirs, 157. 112 Cf. ibid., 156, where Godwin, in stark contrast to Wollstonecraft’s feminist treatise, neatly genders reason male and sensibility female: »A circumstance by which the two sexes are particularly distinguished from each other, is, that the one is accustomed more to the exercise of its reasoning powers, and the other of its feelings.« 113 Cf. Diary, general entry for »Mary Wollstonecraft«.

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sion. Not his falling in love, but his turning novelist is what makes Godwin more attentive towards the (moral) significance of (fellow-)feeling. Apparently, in its original conception, Godwin’s first novel stays very true to his moral philosophy. In Political Justice, the author maintained that affections, unless they arise from prior impartial judgment, are not expressive of universal justice, but rather the vilest prejudice. Caleb Williams seeks to validate this claim by inquiring into the psychological development of a sentimental hero. In the first out of three books, the narrative sets out to critically examine the theme of the man of feeling which Godwin assimilates from the male sentimental novels that he was reading at the time. Less than Sarah Fielding or Samuel Richardson and more like Laurence Sterne or Henry Mackenzie, Godwin questions the virtuousness of his sentimental protagonist. As pointed out in the previous chapter, The Man of Feeling is sceptical towards an intersubjective ethics that gives precedence to honour and politeness over virtue and friendship, but nonetheless asserts the importance of an acute moral sense. Meanwhile, Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey, in that it showcases self-indulgent sympathy or sympathetic imagination, denies that a sensibility of the affections of others is in any way morally relevant.114 Drawing on these sources, Godwin enlarges on the supposition that a man of feeling’s delicate sympathy and consequent benevolence are only the outcome of his opinions of honour. For this purpose, the entire first volume of the novel draws up a biography of Ferdinando Falkland in Caleb’s retelling of an account related to him by his fellow-servant Collins. This life history suggests that the squire, who is renowned for being excessively benevolent, fails to be a genuine friend of mankind despite appearances. Falkland is apostrophised as a man of acute sensibility, yet the narrative raises doubts that his ruling sense is in truth a friendly feeling. Like many sentimental heroes, Falkland has been an eager reader since the days of his youth. The sentiments that the readings of romance suggest to him are not of a moral kind, however. Rather like Yorick, Godwin’s sentimental hero is devoted to vain fancies. On account of these, his mind forms opinions of chivalry: Among the favourite authors of his early years were the heroic poets of Italy. From them he imbibed the love of chivalry and romance. […] He believed that nothing was so well calculated to make men delicate, gallant and humane, as a temper perpetually alive to the sentiments of birth and honour. The opinions he entertained upon these topics were illustrated in his conduct, which was assiduously conformed to the model of heroism that his fancy suggested.115

The institution of honour and corresponding opinions of chivalry imbue Falkland’s motivational structure. Not friendship towards mankind, which for the author of Political Justice counts among the duties of virtue, but a sense of honour becomes the ruling principle in his mind.116 This is demonstrated in the episode which immediate_____________ 114 Cf. ch. 5 in this book, 136–153. 115 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 11. 116 Certainly, this sense of honour is not a derivative of the moral sense or productive of moral sentiments, but an a posteriori sensibility which responds to the opinions of chivalry.

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ly follows. During his grand tour through Italy, young Falkland establishes his reputation as »a man of gallantry and virtue«117 by preventing a duel with an Italian count. Clearing up a misunderstanding in matters of love, he removes the cause of the quarrel and forgives the offence. However, such seemingly benevolent conduct, which gains him the approving sympathy and esteem of his fellows, is subject to considerations of honour. It is a possible chivalric response only because there had been no witnesses at the time of the insult. Falkland remarks that the laws of honour are in the utmost degree rigid, and there was reason to fear that, however anxious I were to be your friend, I might be obliged to be your murderer.118

The only obligation Falkland is susceptible of is that of meeting the demands of honour. He conforms his conduct to his opinions of chivalry which, since they are not corrected by enlightened reason, necessitate his becoming a murderer. By contrast, to be in reality a friend or indeed a friend of mankind (such is the implication in this juxtaposition) were the duty not of honour, but of justice. Murder is the child of chivalry as much as friendship is that of virtue. This alignment of friendship with virtue and honour with vice is of course reminiscent of the misanthropist’s talk in The Man of Feeling.119 The prejudiced Falkland, like those polite men of the world criticised by the Cynic philosopher in Mackenzie’s novel, is a fool of the ›shadow‹ honour and so is ignorant of moral right and wrong. His seeming good nature, for which he is acclaimed by the public that »knew him only by the benevolence of his actions«, turns out to be a polite habit formed according to applause.120 Caleb’s second-hand narrative exposes Falkland’s delicacy of feeling as a mere »sensibility to reputation«, i.e. an acute sense of the approving sympathy of others.121 For the squire, who thus resembles Mackenzie’s Count Respino, benevolence is a function of honour only and so cannot serve as a counterpoise to murder, which may be just as legitimate an action from the perspective of chivalry. In other words, Godwin follows Mackenzie and refutes the supposition that moral excellence is au fond an intersubjective matter. The conclusion that he draws is more radical than that of the Scottish novelist, however: when morality leans on the institution of honour, which is affirmed by approbatory sympathy, bloodshed is the necessary outcome. Certainly, by the high standards of Political Justice, Falkland is as vicious as any other unenlightened mind, even before he commits homicide. The narrative suggests that nothing can keep a man from being the destroyer of his fellow-creatures but the exercise of his understanding which, in an effort to ascertain the justness of human actions, does away with institutional prejudices such as honour or nobility. This Godwinian determinism finds expression in the teleological retrospect of the prolep_____________ 117 118 119 120 121

Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 16. Ibid., 15. Cf. ch. 5 in this book, 143–144. Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 8. Ibid., 89.

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tic narrative. By neatly reconstructing the necessary psychological development of the protagonist, the narrative implies that Falkland the murderer could not have felt or acted otherwise under the influence of the prejudice of chivalry. Validating Godwin’s concept of moral necessity, Falkland’s biography conducts an inquiry into the motivational structure of a man of feeling who, notably, is not categorically distinguished from a man of the world. Hence the assumption that a sentimental hero’s sensibility is intimately connected to virtue is refuted. For Godwin, who radicalises Mackenzie’s subtle criticism, the benevolent man is not merely insufficiently virtuous (because he listens to the ›younger sister‹ of virtue), but a creature of vice no different than the brutal squire Tyrell. When Caleb meets with men at the other end of the social scale with absolutely no pretensions to fame or honour, the question whether a character who listens to his feelings only can somehow be virtuous poses itself anew. In the early chapters of the third book, after having escaped the terrors of prison, the penniless Caleb approaches a group of thieves, believing that »they, as well as honest men, could not fail to have some compassion for a person under my circumstances.«122 Since Caleb has met with little or no kindness in honest men, it is not surprising that these outcasts likewise treat him with malignity. After short hesitation, they follow the example of Jones, the cruellest of the gang members. Insensible of the pain they inflict, they brutally beat Caleb and strip him of his clothes, »urged either by animal sympathy or the spirit of imitation.«123 A natural or brute animal sympathy, as argued in Political Justice, brings about the most accomplished scene of immorality, it makes an appearance as a force that subverts reason and thus justice.124 By contrast, the mention of sympathy that immediately follows this episode points to an example of perfect benevolence. The brigand chief comes across the victim of his gang and his sympathetic sensibility prevails on him to take care of the wounded. He decides to nurse the poor young man to recovery. To Caleb, this is »unexpected sympathy«125 and he marvels that the robber addresses him »with as much kindness as if he had been my father.«126 Mr. Raymond, as he is called, treats the innocent victim of tyranny Caleb with a kindness that is as disinterested as that felt by a parent towards his child. This natural affection of benevolence, aroused by a sympathetic sensation, features as an incitement to the best rather than the worst moral actions: the virtuous Caleb is finally treated as justice demands. The first book of the novel suggests that a sentimental character such as Falkland is in truth a man of the world, who acts benevolently only insofar as it satisfies _____________ 122 Ibid., 188. 123 Ibid., 189. 124 In the same manner, sympathy had earlier been called an »instant insanity« (ibid., 121) that caused Caleb’s irrational actions in the incident of the fire. His »involuntary sympathy« (ibid., 120) with the general confusion among the servants makes him break open the iron chest of Falkland that encloses the squire’s secret documents. 125 Ibid., 190. 126 Ibid., 191.

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his craving for honour, i.e. the esteem he receives from himself and others. Put differently, his seeming good will is only an a posteriori feeling that results from his opinions of chivalry. Thus, the reality of benevolence, namely as a disinterested and natural affection, is cast into doubt. Yet Raymond, the leader of a group of outlawed men, has no such pretensions to fame and is ignorant of the institution of honour. He is benevolent nonetheless. Apparently, it is his spontaneous sympathy with a perishing fellow-creature, rather than any previous reflection, that gives rise to his benevolence. Observing this ›sentimental robber‹127 more closely, Caleb raises the question whether an unrefined man of feeling is not possessed of some limited virtue after all, namely in that he resorts neither to unjust opinion nor just reason, but listens to his good nature only. Put differently, in the society of the thieves, the eponymous hero comes to realise that the man of feeling is not identical with the man of the world and that, in consequence, benevolence may yet be a pre-reflective and truly disinterested affection. Caleb watches the robbers closely and remarks that even in what regards their own interests, they »appeared to have no intercourse with reflection or reason.«128 The same, he finds, is true of their disinterested affections: They consulted their own inclinations. They did not impose upon themselves the task, as is too often the case in human society, of seeming tacitly to approve that from which they suffered most; or, which is worse, of persuading themselves that all the wrongs they suffered were right; but were at open war with their oppressors. […] I found among them benevolence and kindness: they were strongly susceptible of emotions of generosity. But, as their situation was precarious, their dispositions were proportionably fluctuating. Inured to the animosity of their species, they were irritable and passionate. […] Uninvolved in the debilitating routine of human affairs, they frequently displayed an energy which, from every impartial observer, would have extorted veneration. Energy is perhaps of all qualities the most valuable; and a just political system would possess the means of extracting from it, thus circumstanced, its beneficial qualities, instead of consigning it, as now, to indiscriminate destruction.129

The gang fights the ill institutions of society, but upon the worst grounds. As the thieves are void of enlightened reason, their being free from common prejudices or impositions is not the outcome of impartial judgment, but narrow understandings. Caleb nonetheless perceives a certain »energy« in the frame of these outlawed ›natu_____________ 127 The theme of the ›noble bandit‹ appears to be a borrowing from ›Walking‹ Stewart (rather than Friedrich Schiller’s Die Räuber), who in Travels, 24–25, characterises the English robber as a sympathising man of feeling: »This class of unhappy men, who, for want of education, are not provided with sufficient power of reason to anticipate the evil their uncontrouled and impetuous passions bring upon them, are more numerous and active in this country than in any other part of the world; and even while they violate, in the most daring manner, the law, and collective force of society, seem cautious not to offend the principles of humanity by acts of cruelty, as is customary with robbers in almost every other part of the globe. This contrast is owing to that wonderful sensibility in the constitution of an Englishman, which is the parent of sympathy – which comprehends the essence and nature of all virtue; every other virtue being but conventional.« 128 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 194. 129 Ibid., 194–195.

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ral men‹ which, though at present it mostly serves ill purposes, may perhaps be directed to the best of ends. Such vigour is a property that might contribute to the good of society under more just social circumstances and if assisted by »liberal and enlightened views«.130 What precisely is this ›energy‹ from which bad or good action springs? It is clearly not the »energy of truth«131 that is earlier referred to, nor does it appear to be a force attending a fixed determination of the understanding. Rather, it seems to signify the »energy of uncontrolable passion«132 Caleb soon after discovers in his own breast. If the term ›energy‹ is a cipher for man’s motivational structure, then the example of the robbers proves that the determinateness of human action hinges on feeling, not judgment. In the society of the thieves, who are characterised by »savage ferocity«,133 Caleb learns the force of passion. He concludes that the thieves are animated either by hatred, which makes them morally ill, or by disinterested benevolence, which affords them some inferior kind of virtue or goodness. The lesson learned from these radical men of feeling disproves the assumption made in Political Justice that inclinations are only the last act of the understanding. When under scrutiny in a first-person perspective, moral necessity proves to be emotionally based, just as Hume or Wollstonecraft had claimed. The entries Godwin made to his diary suggest that the episode of the robbers marks a turning point for him. He begins to revise his novel after having written the first two chapters of the third book, which contain this part of the story, between the 30th of October 1793 and the 2nd of January 1794.134 Changes to the episode in question are significant. The long passage about the motivational ›energy‹ of the thieves quoted above substitutes a shorter piece of text which stresses how their disposition to benevolence arises from reflection and more particularly their »knowing that they wholly depended upon the mutual goodwill of each other«.135 Judging by the deletions in the manuscript, the society of the robbers was initially designed to be a utopia of liberty composed of men who are free from prejudice, conscious of justice and possessed of public sense. Once it is acknowledged that feeling is the cause of human action, and thus that true liberty must also imply the freedom from unreasonable passions, Raymond and his ›energetic‹ robbers no longer aspire to the title _____________ 130 131 132 133 134

Ibid., 195. Ibid., 45. Ibid., 119. Ibid., 191. On 30 October 1793, Godwin, as he notes in his Diary, began writing volume three of the novel and by the 2nd of January had written a total of 23 pages. Between January 6th and April 1st, he revises his work. 135 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 315. After having written and rewritten the episode of the robbers with which the third volume commences, Godwin – perhaps to rethink the conclusion of the work – stopped short in the composing of his thrilling tale and revised the manuscript over a period of three months. In his Diary, Godwin mentioned working on the novel continuously, almost on a daily basis, and noted the number of pages written: on the 2nd of January 1794, he makes the entry »Write p. 21, 22, 23« and only on the 1st of April he resumes his work, noting »Write p. 24–28«. A total of 44 entries in between read »Revise«.

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»friend to liberty«,136 a designation which is omitted in the published text. Godwin’s turn away from his so-called ›Sandemanianism‹,137 his becoming aware that emotions and not judgments are the source of human actions, apparently grows out of his exploration of what it means to be an actual man of feeling, who pays no respect to reasonings or opinions. Later in the rewritten postscript, this tendency manifests itself more fully and occasions a partial apology of sentimental heroes. After Caleb has struggled in vain to evade the vigilance of Falkland, he attempts to achieve his vindication by summoning his former master before the criminal court. In the manuscript ending, the endeavour to have his oppressor hanged for murder fails and Caleb falls into insanity. In the published denouement, however, he spontaneously sympathises with his seriously ill oppressor and is compelled to repent his accusation: I can conceive of no shock greater than that I received from the sight of Mr Falkland. His appearance […] was now the appearance of a corpse. He was brought in in a chair unable to stand, fatigued and almost destroyed by the journey he had just taken. His visage was colourless; his limbs destitute of motion, almost of life. […] What a sight was this to me! Till the moment that Falkland was presented to my view, my breast was steeled to pity. I thought that I had coolly entered into the reason of the case (passion in a state of solemn and omnipotent vehemence always appears to be coolness to him in whom it domineers); and that I had determined impartially and justly.138

Caleb’s sympathetic sensation, which counteracts the vicious resolve of his understanding and so determines a new course of conduct, sufficiently shows that the original cause of action is feeling. Just like Raymond had earlier acted on a sudden sympathy when beholding the eponymous hero in deadly peril, so here the visible signs of Falkland’s torments and decay elicit Caleb’s fellow-feeling. Certainly, this species of sympathising is not to be confused with that which formerly characterised their relationship. Their earlier »magnetical sympathy«139 was founded upon a specific, unreasonable and thus problematic affinity between them.140 This partiality of course restrained Caleb’s judgment and thus his ability to meet the severe demands of virtue. By contrast, the sympathy that now reigns in his breast serves as a midwife for political justice, the establishment of which reason can sanction. There is some_____________ 136 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 315. 137 Robert Sandeman, after whom the sect of the Sandemanians is named, asserted that the essence of saving faith consists in the bare belief of truth. From this perspective, knowing Christ is a purely rational matter. For the early Godwin, the nature of moral actions is as purely rational as religious conviction is for Sandeman. Cf. e.g. Robert Sandeman, An Epistolary Correspondence, 62: »For my purpose was to transfer the whole stress commonly laid on faith to uhe [read the, my note] bare truth concerning Christ crucified, so as to understand by faith nothing more than the truth known or believed.« 138 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 271. 139 Ibid., 100. 140 Jonathan Lamb (2009), 75–76, classified the specific sympathy between Falkland and Caleb as ›complete‹. He finds it is so entire as to question the self-autonomy of the two persons concerned and thus leads to the vilest hatred. Clearly, this in not the case in the postscript.

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thing so inherently reasonable in the claims of this elementary fellow-feeling, which exists even among strangers, that Caleb is impelled to suspect his former train of reasoning of error: »There must have been some dreadful mistake in the train of argument that persuaded me to be the author of this hateful scene.«141 Caleb’s discovery is that feeling with our fellows in matters of life and death constitutes a genuinely reasonable affection which is infallibly in accord with justice. To act upon such sympathy and save a life that may yet prove useful to society is always just, as Caleb’s reason affirms. Disinterestedness, i.e a tendency to advance the general good, inheres in such natural affection prior to impartial judgment: Caleb exclaims that his »compassion« for dying Falkland makes him »willingly forget every interest of my own«.142 Once Caleb discovers that the man of feeling answers not only to the dictates of honour, but also (or even more so) those of his good nature, his condemnation of Falkland, whose benevolence thus proves genuine, is suddenly amended. Though he »came to accuse«, Caleb finds himself »compelled to applaud«143 the »noble nature«144 of his former master. What other reason could there be for revising his moral judgment, if not the insight that disinterested natural affection, which motivates many of the squire’s actions, provides the ›seeds‹ for true friendship with mankind after all? »I acknowledge«, Caleb says to the gentlemen of the jury, »that in various ways Mr Falkland shewed humanity towards me during this period.«145 Caleb comes to understand that the squire’s tyranny, emanating from his idol honour, was all this time mitigated and softened by his good nature. He suddenly recognises how many of the reliefs he met with during his adventures must have been Falkland’s doing146 and concludes that »in a happier field« not poisoned by the institutions of society, the qualities of Falkland »would expand into virtue and germinate into general usefulness«.147 This is the exact conclusion Caleb had drawn from his observations of Raymond and his sentimental robbers. Speaking with Mackenzie, it becomes evident that both the squire and the brigand chief are animated by the ›younger sister of virtue‹, which sometimes (but not always) meets the demands of justice. To some degree then, the man of feeling is rehabilitated as his good nature proves genuine in view of an emotion-based moral necessity. Once volition is no longer conceived of as the last act of the understanding, but rather a response to pleasure and pain, Caleb acknowledges that good will is first of all a natural impulse that follows on the heels of sympathetic sensation. When benevolence thus ceases to be regarded as a function of reason, Falkland’s disposition may be understood as truly disinterested. Though imperfect in the light of justice, his benignity turns out to _____________ 141 142 143 144 145 146

Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 272. Ibid. Ibid., 275. Ibid., 274. Ibid. This is what, in the end of the third book, Falkland himself had claimed during his last meeting with Caleb. Surprisingly, he accuses Forester for relentlessly hunting down his man-servant. 147 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 276.

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be a first step on the path to a more virtuous life. Therefore, it is only consistent that Godwin, upon realising the nature of benevolence, rewrites the postscript and credits the squire for his good tendency, which in truth distinguishes him from the tyrant Tyrell. While a man of feeling may fall short of justice at times, he is not therefore a habitual murder. Certainly, speaking with Mackenzie or Shaftesbury, goodness is not virtuousness.148 Falkland is a man of meagre virtue, very much like Harley before his reformation. The squire’s many failings in point of justice are no less conspicuous than his frequent expressions of benevolence.149 Though his emotional bent may be morally good, his opinions could not be more vicious. Precisely by way of this discrepancy, his example shows that man’s virtuous character is founded on both good feeling and good judgment. The revaluation of sympathy and resulting benevolence in the rewritten postscript finds a resonance in the changes made to Political Justice for a second edition.150 Here too, the motivational ground of the human emotions is acknowledged151 and so, accordingly, the chapter called »Of the Principle of Virtue« is rewritten and renamed »Of Self-Love and Benevolence«.152 Godwin now makes »true sympathy« and consequent »motives of benevolence«153 a necessary (although not sufficient) cause of virtue: If self-love be the only principle of action, there can be no such thing as virtue. Benevolent intention is essential to virtue. Virtue, where it exists in any eminence, is a species of conduct modelled upon a true estimate of the different reasons inviting us to preference. He, that makes a false estimate, and prefers a trivial and partial good to an important and comprehensive one, is vicious. Virtue requires a certain disposition and view of the mind,

_____________ 148 As pointed out in Barton (2018a), esp. 277, 286–289, what connects Shaftesbury and Godwin is that they are both equally moral realists. Thus, they argue that reason plays the pivotal part in the realisation of virtue. Similarly, Mackenzie’s Harley in his concluding monologue emphasises the role of reason in moral discernment, cf. ch. 5 in this book, 146. 149 Handwerk (1993), 949, adopting the Stoic rigour of Political Justice, asserted that if readers agree with Caleb’s generous sentiments in the postscript, they surely misunderstand the intention of the author, who wants them to be averse to such a conclusion. However, the new ending does not mark Caleb’s departure from but his return to the dictate of justice. The sympathy between oppressor and oppressed is not simply a »problematic identification« by which »the novel undercuts its own effort at an historical explanation of events.« Rather, it restores Caleb’s first-order impartiality after he has indulged in his self-affections. 150 In discussing the revisions, I will only highlight aspects related to Moral Sentimentalism. For a full account of the changes, cf. Philp (1986), 120–167. 151 However, only in the third 1798 edition Godwin consistently rectifies all sentences in which reasoning is said to motivate action. For instance, in the chapter »Of Free Will and Necessity«, he corrects that it is not »propositions and reasoning« but »sensations pleasurable or painful« that generate volition and animal motion, cf. Godwin, Political Justice [1796/98], 183. 152 Cf. ibid., 195. 153 Ibid., 198.

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The partial benevolence of Falkland, as opposed to self-love, is an important first step towards the establishment of justice. Yet for virtue to exist in some eminence, impartial judgment is nonetheless compulsory. It appears that for Godwin, the normative content is still exclusively lodged in the immutable notion of justice, which reason alone can approximate. Godwin’s cautious inclusion of good feeling into his systematics, which grows out of an increasing focus on political or social reality as discussed in his realist fiction, is then perhaps not as heavily transformative as many have suggested. Certainly, the acknowledgment of emotion as the ground of moral necessity results not only in a valorisation of benevolent feeling, but also a problematisation of self-affections. This brings us to another of Godwin’s three ›blemishes‹, namely the unqualified rejection of selfish passions and an inattention towards their tendency to bias the judgment of even the most enlightened mind. In the postscript to Caleb Williams, the eponymous hero not only praises the benign feelings of Falkland, he also chides himself for his self-love. His conduct, like that of Falkland, is necessarily actuated by emotions, but of this Caleb is initially ignorant. At the outset, he describes himself as the personification of Godwin’s first-order impartiality. His selfcharacterisation in the first chapter introduces him as the paragon of an »inquisitive mind« whose rational exercise necessarily effects his »improvement«155 in the best sense of Godwin’s perfectibility thesis. Veracity and justice indeed seem to be Caleb’s constant guides. Throughout the novel, he attempts to act as an impartial reasoner, unprejudiced by the opinions (or feelings) of either himself or others. Although treated with hostility by his fellow men, he rests self-assured in his moral autonomy: »My own conscience witnesses in behalf of that innocence my pretensions to which are regarded in the world as incredible.«156 This Stoic posture does not stand the test of realist fiction. Unlike the speaker of Political Justice, Caleb is not merely an onlooker. In books two and three of the novel, he engages in interpersonal relationships and is thus confronted with and gets entangled in social affections and institutions. Although he penetrates into his master’s secret for the sake of truth only,157 his inquiry creates such a stir in the mind of Falkland that enmity is the necessary outcome. When his master confesses the murder to him in confidence, Caleb’s aspiration to impartiality is put under a constraint. The squire forces a promise from his manservant to keep silence, thereby demanding _____________ 154 155 156 157

Ibid., 199–200. Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 5. Ibid. A deletion in the manuscript explains Caleb’s motivation to inquire into the mystery as an uneasiness of the knowledge-seeking mind, cf. ibid., 299: »There is something in the idea of murder, as it offers itself to an infant enquirer, strangely terrible and alarming. […] There is something in curiosity upon such a subject that does not allow us a minute’s tranquillity.« In the published text, Caleb’s curiosity is apostrophised as a misguided offence, cf. ibid., 121: »My offence had merely been a mistaken thirst for knowledge.«

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nothing less than partiality from his confidant. Godwin had dedicated a whole chapter to the institution of promises in Political Justice to show its inconsistency with virtue.158 Accordingly, Caleb’s submitting himself to such a contract proves his first and foremost fallacy. In practice, this restriction in point of sincerity makes his protestations of innocence fruitless once he is framed for a crime he did not commit. The squire’s machinations carry the day, so the narrative suggests, because Caleb refrains from telling the truth. In keeping his promise, he forfeits his ability to carry conviction even to the most impartial listener. The half-brother of Falkland, Mr. Forester, is such a fair-minded reasoner, who says of himself that »the severity I exercise in the sequel shall always be accompanied with impartiality in the preliminary.«159 In short, he is introduced as the unbiased and unfeeling judge of Political Justice who would condemn his mother in order to save Fénelon. More than anyone, he is inclined to set the prejudice of reputation aside and give Caleb a fair hearing. Thus, when the squire accuses his manservant of theft, it seems to bode well for justice that Forester assumes the role of magistrate. To pass impartial judgment, he demands to be acquainted with the full facts of the case. Sincerity, he is sure to remark, evinces itself in coherence; when, in want of evidence, »you trust your vindication to the plausibility of your tale, you must take care to render it consistent and complete.«160 While Falkland constructs a false but plausible narrative, Caleb fails to persuade Forester of his sincerity since he cannot account for the full chain of causes and effects without revealing his master’s murder. Forester, since he is kept ignorant of the truth, misjudges Caleb and finds him guilty. Being the unfeeling and rigid reasoner that he is, he relentlessly hunts down the fugitive. Since in the world of ›things as they are‹, first-order impartiality struggles with intrigue and the social institution of promises, Caleb is innocently subjected to reprobation. At length, he answers this injustice with a private resentment which produces the final catastrophe. In the postscript, Caleb understands how his selfish passions had biased his judgment and exclaims: »my despair was criminal, was treason against the sovereignty of truth.«161 Initially, however, Godwin had suggested that the eponymous hero may achieve justice simply by telling the truth plainly and without reserve. Caleb, the narrator, attempts to rectify his error of subjecting himself to the institution of promises by providing his readers with a tale which »appear[s] to have that consistency, which is seldom attendant but upon truth«.162 Evan Radcliffe has suggested that Godwin’s optimistic belief in sincerity is eventually overcome because he acknowledges the significance of narrative identity, an acknowledgement which supposedly makes him rewrite the postscript.163 Certainly, _____________ 158 159 160 161 162 163

Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 87–90. Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 145. Ibid., 151. Ibid., 274. Ibid., 5. Radcliffe (2000), 545, attempted to explain the mystery of the alternative ending by supposing that Godwin comes to realise his »misplaced faith in the transparency of narrative«. The rewritten post-

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Caleb finally understands that the mind is biased in a state of affliction, but it seems bold to conclude that the postscript therefore casts into doubt the reality or possibility of truth. If this were the case, why does the second edition of Political Justice put a renewed stress on the claim »that truth, when adequately communicated, is, so far as relates to the conviction of the understanding, irresistible«?164 Godwin sticks to his conviction that truth may transcend any narrative, but he acknowledges that the most ardent reasoner may be biased by selfish affections. In another note dated 1794 which lists errors of Political Justice to be corrected in the second edition, Godwin remarks with respect to an early chapter, which had proclaimed Stoic »apathy«:165 »too little given to passion«.166 No doubt, the concession that first-order impartiality demands too much of man, because he is determined by his emotions and passions, is already anticipated in Caleb’s postscript. In the concluding part of the novel, it becomes evident that feelings of despair or resentment encroach upon the most virtuous mind when it falls into misery. Caleb, unaware that »passion in a state of solemn and omnipotent vehemence always appears to be coolness to him in whom it domineers«,167 makes his judgment the dupe of his selfish affections. Only under the influence of sudden disinterested sympathy, he apprehends how passion had tarnished his understanding and viciously persuaded him that having his former master hanged were »a mere piece of equity and justice, such as an impartial spectator would desire«, while in truth he acted out of mere »self-regard«.168 Not reason, but his spontaneous sympathising with Falkland makes Caleb return to his impartial mindset by counteracting his selfish passions of anger and revenge. Remarkably, both the ›old‹ and the ›new‹ conception of sympathy make an appearance in the novel: it features not only as an elementary concurrence of affects that interrelates mankind and allows Caleb to regain impartiality, but also as a sympathetic imagination which constitutes approbation. This brings us to Godwin’s last ›blemish‹, namely the inattention to the fact that human morality is based on moral pleasure and pain. When at last, in the third book, the eponymous hero meets with the disapprobation of every living soul, this reproof manifests itself in Caleb’s being »cut off from the expectation of sympathy, kindness and the goodwill of mankind.«169 Sometimes, he is indeed pitied, but as soon as his identity is known and public opin-

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164 165 166 167 168 169

script, he asserted, indicates that the author becomes aware of how judgment is reliant upon the history of individuals and the narratives they construct. Supposedly, Caleb the narrator acknowledges that he forms an understanding of both Falkland and himself in narrating his tale, which in turn interprets Collins’ narrative. Godwin, Political Justice [1796/98], 43. Godwin, Political Justice [1793], 24. Godwin, Political Justice [1796/98], 414. Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 271. Ibid. Ibid., 220.

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ion works against him, nearly everyone proves more sympathetic with Falkland.170 When the latter was arraigned for murder, he nonetheless commanded the sympathetic approval of the multitude.171 Caleb however, although he is only wanted for theft, is exempted from appreciative fellow-feeling. Indeed, when it builds on propositions of the imagination, which may or may not be true, sympathy frequently reinforces injustices. Godwin suggests that the sympathetic imagination is the fool of prejudice: the gentleman is always more readily sympathised with than the poor fugitive. Though often unjust, approbatory sympathy is highly relevant to moral experience, the novel finds. It is simply not enough that Caleb can satisfy his own conscience; although he knows his own virtue, he feels the pain of universal disapprobation. He is left without a friend: even Collins, whose friendship he had enjoyed since childhood, turns his back on him. In this man of »benevolent philosophy«, Caleb no longer meets with »sympathy and reciprocal affection«.172 Remarkably, Collins is the representative of an ethics associated with the man of feeling: he cherishes the ›younger sister‹ of virtue, benevolence, and so is convinced that Falkland is »the living model of liberality and goodness«.173 This old servant is nearly acquainted with the details of his master’s life and failings (Collins was the author of the history Caleb recounted in the first book) and yet he commends his master: »I believe Mr Falkland to be virtuous, but I know him to be prejudiced.«174 This is precisely where the problem lies for Godwin. Despite better knowledge, although Collins is conscious that the squire’s prejudices honour and nobility have morally ill effects, he cannot help but sympathise approvingly. Falkland inspires moral pleasure with his benevolence and thus a belief in his virtue which, of course, reason is unable to sanction. Though he is prejudiced rather than impartial, as justice would require, Falkland’s disinterestedness nonetheless strikes a sympathetic chord. Put differently, Caleb’s just but unfeeling protestations do not have the same moral charm as Falkland’s heartfelt expressions of benevolence. The rewritten postscript finally acknowledges that there is something immediately pleasing in morally good affections. Most of the man-of-feeling novels, which critically explore the tenets of Moral Sentimentalism, bear witness to this fact. Yet the question is whether the sentimental conclusion of Caleb Williams affirms this school of thought outright? In other words, does the author agree with the Scottish empiricists that virtue depends entirely on feeling or does he seek a compromise in the manner of Sterne, who recognised the human need for sympathy, but largely _____________ 170 Cf. ibid., 220–222. The only exception to this rule is that of the sentimental robber, who is more closely acquainted with Caleb’s circumstances. 171 Cf. ibid., 91: »It was a sort of sympathetic feeling that took hold upon all ranks and degrees. The multitude received him with huzzas, they took his horses from his carriage, dragged him in triumph, and attended him many miles in his return to his own habitation.« 172 Ibid., 262. 173 Ibid., 263. 174 Ibid.

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stayed true to his rationalist doctrine? For certain, the protagonist Caleb has a change of heart. When he confronts the jury in the concluding court scene, he does not, as he had intended, coldly state the facts of the case. Rather, he feels impelled »to lay the emotions of my soul naked before my hearers.«175 The eponymous hero gives a sentimental speech which neatly describes the circumstances of both his and Falkland’s passions. He explains the various causes of his self-affections as well as the origins of Falkland’s vices and virtues in rich detail. Yet the most stress is laid on Caleb’s painful remorse for having subjected the squire, a man of feeling, to a court which must pronounce his death. The members of the jury (and so perhaps also the readers of the novel) are deeply touched when they enter into the intersubjective situation of the two principal protagonists: Every one that heard me was melted into tears. They could not resist the ardour with which I praised the great qualities of Falkland; they manifested their sympathy in the tokens of my penitence.176

By engaging the sympathetic imagination of his fellows and making them acquainted with both his and Falkland’s feelings, Caleb effects political justice. Falkland himself, sympathising approvingly with his manservant, faces up to his idol honour. He throws himself into Caleb’s arms and exclaims »I adore the qualities that you now display, though to those qualities I owe my ruin.«177 The squire rises above his prejudices, defies the loss of his reputation, and pronounces his guilt. Caleb’s other listeners are in tears and so the moral relevance not only of sensational, but also of imagination-based sympathy becomes evident. When engaged by a sentimental narrative that lays bare the motives of the moral agents involved, Godwin seems to have discovered, the sympathetic propositional imagination can advance the cause of virtue. This implies that the novelist who wants to promote the establishment of political justice must not only arraign the cruelty of ill institutions from the perspective of first-order-impartiality, but engage the approving sympathies of his readers on behalf of virtuous characters. In other words, sympathetic narration is crucial for the propagation of virtue. The fact that Godwin subsequently took up a career as a sentimental novelist suggests as much. However, the philosopher does not therefore embrace Moral Sentimentalism, as later editions of Political Justice prove. Judging by the changes he makes to his philosophical treatise, Godwin assimilates rather than appropriates sentimentalist tenets. Certainly, in Caleb’s first-person narrative, the fact that morality is based on feelings of moral pleasure or pain comes to light. However, this is not to say that justice has no further ground.178 Indeed, Godwin emphasises that »[t]he foundation of morality _____________ 175 176 177 178

Ibid., 272. Ibid., 275. Ibid. Collings (2003) has argued that Caleb Williams rejects individual judgment in favour of a conversationalist model and so renounces the ›fiction‹ of immutable reason while formally adhering to it, positing an ›empty place of reason‹. Since individual and general perfectibility are interdependent for Godwin and thus an emphasis on the latter does not per se disprove his moral realism, I would like

Sympathy Lost and Regained

191

is justice«,179 not vice versa. Justice, although it may find expression in sympathy, is not only a derivative of moral sentiment. Rather, it is an immutable and intelligible notion which the enlightened mind approximates by contemplating the general welfare of the system. From the »proper post« of impartiality, which reason more so than imagination allows us to assume, we »cultivate those views and affections which must be most familiar to the most perfect intelligence«.180 Such reflection allows us to rationally discern absolute moral value of which our sympathy or sympathetic imagination can give but a first indication. Thus, the revisions do not derail but complement Godwin’s philosophy. In his role as rationalist philosopher, he now wanted »to prepare the enlightened to sympathise with the just claims of the oppressed and the humble,«181 and for this purpose, he appealed to their reason. Conversely, as a sentimental novelist, his aim was to enlighten his readers in the first place and to this end he engaged their propositional fancy to make them feel for victims of injustice. As a key concept of Enlightenment moral philosophy and literature, the sympathetic imagination thus made its perhaps last appearance in the thought of William Godwin.

_____________ to turn this argument around. When lowering his vantage point to that of a first-person narrator, the rationalist philosopher Godwin acknowledges an ›empty place of sympathy‹. What I mean by this is that sympathy, though its moral significance is acknowledged in Caleb Williams, is never formally said to bear normative moral content in Political Justice. Thus, it lingers in an ›empty place‹. 179 Godwin, Caleb Williams, ed. Clemit, 91. 180 Ibid., 198. 181 Ibid., 7.

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INDEX OF NAMES Abernethy, John 62 Ainsworth, Michael 32, 33, 37 Antonius Pius 34 Aristotle 31, 32, 40, 55, 58, 90, 95, 96, 104, 122, 171, 173 Arrian 17, 19–21, 23, 30 Astell, Mary 23 Austen, Jane 175 Barlow, Joel 157, 158, 165, 166, 168, 170, 177 Barlow, Ruth 157 Beattie, James 3, 81, 112, 149 Belisarius 123 Berkeley, George 13, 26 Blair, Hugh 3, 98, 121 Boswell, James 81, 82 Bradshaigh, Dorothy, Lady 116 Brooke, Henry 6, 62, 117, 125, 130–146 Burke, Edmund 84, 85, 117, 134, 140, 175, 176 Burnet, Gilbert the Younger 62 Burnet, Thomas 35 Burns, Robert 3 Butler, Joseph 101 Campbell, Archibald 60 Capitolinus 23, 34 Casaubon, Isaac 23, 34 Casaubon, Meric 17–27, 34, 35 Chaucer, Geoffrey 113 Cherbury, Herbert of 35 Chrysippus 21, 92 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 10, 18, 19, 21, 31, 32, 35, 37, 39, 42, 55, 76, 101, 173 Clarke, John 59–61 Clarke, Samuel 95, 96 Coetzee, John Maxwell 2 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 98, 113, 151 Corneille, Pierre 110 Coste, Pierre 16 Cudworth, Ralph 28, 95 de Hauvilla, Johannes 10, 116

de Piles, Roger 107 Democritus 16 Descartes, René 52, 54 Diderot, Denis 107 Digby, Kenelm 61 Diogenes Laertius 21, 143, 146 Elphinston, James 137 Epictetus 15, 17–21, 23, 30, 92 Euripides 90 Fénelon, François 160, 163, 187 Fielding, Henry 82, 115 Fielding, Sarah 116, 138, 176, 178 Foucault, Michel 17 Franklin, Benjamin 161 Garrick, David 81, 82, 90 Gataker, Thomas 23, 34, 35 Gerard, Alexander 3, 6, 111, 112, 152, 170 Godwin, William VII, 6, 7, 117, 118, 136, 145–191 Goldsmith, Oliver VII, 6, 118–130 Harris, James 23 Hartley, David 106, 147, 164 Hays, Mary 158 Hazlitt, William 1, 2, 112, 113, 149 Hobbes, Thomas 22, 32, 93 Holcroft, Thomas 157, 166, 168 Horace 13 Hume, David 1, 5, 8–11, 14, 39, 50–53, 56, 58, 60, 62, 64–80, 81, 84, 85, 87, 88, 91–94, 96–98, 100, 102, 103, 106, 111, 112, 117, 119, 133, 134–136, 140, 142, 148, 159–167, 173, 182 Hutcheson, Francis 4, 5, 10, 14, 49–64, 67, 68, 71, 75, 76, 81, 87, 93, 95–98, 100, 101, 103, 117–119, 124, 125, 131, 132, 142, 148, 160, 164 Jardine, Alexander, Major 157, 166, 168 Johnson, Samuel 98, 118, 122, 125

208

Index of Names

Kames, Henry Home, Lord 2, 5, 6, 63, 64, 79, 81–83, 88, 90, 93, 98–113, 117, 119, 121, 122, 127–129, 133, 139, 140, 142, 150, 152, 153, 160 Keats, John 2, 6, 83, 106, 111, 113, 128 King, William, Archbishop of Dublin 62 Lamb, Charles 1 Locke, John 13, 29, 31–37, 50, 54, 55, 75, 147 Mackenzie, Henry VII, 6, 14, 115, 117, 124, 130–145, 176–180, 184, 185 Mackintosh, James, Sir 164 Malebranche, Nicholas 50, 52 Mandeville, Bernard 93, 94 Marcus Aurelius 8, 9, 15, 17–21, 23–26, 34, 35, 42, 46, 65, 93 Mencius 120 Micklethwaite, Thomas 15 Milton, John 117 Molesworth, Robert 49, 50 Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat, Baron de 119 More, Henry 35, 95 Morley, Henry 115 Nanpo, Ōta 116 Norinaga, Motoori 116 Patrick, Simon 23 Paul, St. (Apostle) 22, 25, 26, 132 Peirce, Charles Sanders 8–11, 73 Plato 9, 15, 18, 23, 26–28, 35, 36, 39, 42, 45, 47, 66, 78, 85, 95, 96 Plautus, Titus Maccius 22 Plutarch 31 Posidonius 18 Proust, Marcel 106 Pufendorf, Samuel 31, 50 Richardson, Samuel 92, 116, 138, 176, 178 Rose, Elizabeth 144 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 85, 94, 103, 131, 153, 175 Salmasius 34

Sandeman, Robert 183 Seneca 120 Schiller, Friedrich 181 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 3, 11 Scott, Walter, Sir 175 Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley-Cooper, Third Earl of V, VIII, 4–6, 10, 13– 50, 52, 54–56, 58, 61, 65–67, 73–76, 84, 92–97, 100, 101, 115, 119, 131, 132, 137, 141, 142, 144, 146, 158, 167–169, 173, 177, 185 Shakespeare, William 59, 98, 110, 113, 149, 150 Shelley, Mary 175 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 153 Smith, Adam 1, 3, 5–10, 14, 39, 42, 53, 62, 64, 65, 68, 74, 79, 81–100, 102– 105, 107, 108, 110, 113, 116, 117, 119–127, 130–133, 137, 139, 140, 142, 143, 146, 148, 160, 171, 175 Smith, John 95 Socrates 42, 43 Sophocles 90 Sterne, Laurence 6, 115, 117, 128, 136, 138, 145–156, 174, 175, 178, 189 Stewart, John ›Walking‹ 7, 157, 166–173, 177, 181 Stuart, Gilbert 168 Swift, Jonathan 49 Synge, Edward 49, 50, 62 Thater, Diana 2 Toland, John 22, 36 Virgil 13, 150 Wesley, John 131 Whichcote, Benjamin 17–28, 35, 36 Wollaston, William 95, 96 Wollstonecraft, Mary 7, 157, 158, 166, 170–173, 175, 177, 182 Wordsworth, William 2, 109 Xylander, William 23 Zeno 21, 92

INDEX OF SUBJECTS aesthetics/aesthetic VII, 1, 5, 6, 14, 28, 32, 50, 56–58, 79, 81–83, 98, 103– 113, 117, 120, 137, 149, 151 allelopoiesis/allelopoietic 7–11, 16, 26, 28, 76, 112, 120 antiquity/ancient VII, 1, 3–9, 13–18, 23, 25–29, 31, 32, 35–39, 44, 49, 50, 52– 56, 64–66, 75–78, 90, 93, 96, 101, 120, 150, 167, 168, 171 appropriation/appropriate 4, 11, 15, 16, 18, 21, 26, 50, 55, 65, 87, 101, 103, 108, 113, 155, 162, 163, 166, 190 assimilation/assimilate 11, 15, 16, 21, 26, 28, 56, 61, 77, 94, 96, 101, 112, 164, 171, 178, 190 autopoiesis 8–10 benevolence/benevolent 4, 6, 52, 55, 56, 59–62, 68, 73, 74, 91, 95, 99–105, 115, 124–126, 130–136, 140–143, 145–147, 150, 159, 160, 163–165, 167, 170, 175, 178–182, 184–186, 189 bible 22, 26, 31, 130 Cambridge Platonism 15, 23, 26, 27, 35, 36, 95, 132, 155 Christianity/Christian 4, 6, 23, 25–28, 35, 59, 62, 118, 131, 134, 135 comedy/comic 82, 117, 118, 123, 124, 126, 127, 140, 141, 148, 152 common sense 16, 32–35, 37, 75, 158 contagion/contagious 18, 39, 57, 58, 160, 166 criticism/critic 1, 2, 4, 13, 53, 59, 81, 82, 95, 98, 103–113, 121, 128, 133, 147, 153 deism 26 deity 16, 27, 34, 52, 62, 95, 132 dialogue 6, 13, 17, 18, 42–46, 117, 132 disinterestedness/disinterested 21, 22, 25–27, 30, 31, 35, 38, 54, 56, 59, 62,

67, 72, 73, 88, 93, 95, 132, 180–185, 188, 189 empathy 3, 83, 112, 136, 137, 151 empiricism VII, 4, 6, 7, 14, 32, 35, 49–52, 54–56, 60–62, 65, 67, 71, 78, 86, 95, 96, 101, 106, 152, 158, 159, 189 Enlightenment VII, 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 14, 15, 20, 26, 32, 36, 39, 49, 51, 55, 61, 81, 95, 98, 107, 111, 116, 117, 120, 124, 132, 135, 153, 157, 159, 176, 191 Epicureanism 16, 95 enumeration 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 experientiality/experiential 108, 117, 127, 139, 150, 152 fiction/fictional VII, 1, 5–8, 16, 17, 39– 41, 43, 44, 47, 53, 59, 63–65, 77–79, 81–85, 91, 92, 97, 98, 104–112, 115– 157, 169, 173–191 friendship/friend 24, 28, 30–33, 38, 43– 48, 55, 81, 92, 130, 135, 136, 141– 146, 167, 173, 178, 179, 183, 184, 189 genre VII, 5, 6, 44, 92, 116–118, 122, 147, 153, 157, 176 historiography 53, 78, 81 hybridisation/hybridise 10, 11, 25, 36, 55 imagination, creative 2, 6, 7, 39, 44, 47, 49, 83, 109–113, 117, 118, 136, 146– 156, 170 imagination, propositional VII, 1, 4–6, 14, 39, 43, 44, 47, 49, 51, 53, 63, 64, 68, 74, 77–79, 82–98, 103–111, 117, 120–123, 126–128, 133, 134, 137– 139, 147–151, 153, 165, 188–191 imagination, sensory 5, 39–41, 47, 49, 51, 53, 66, 85, 105, 106, 108, 110 impartiality/impartial VII, 5, 6, 30, 38, 47, 53, 61, 68, 73–79, 89, 91–93, 96, 100,

210

Index of Subjects

116, 119–122, 126, 128–130, 132, 136, 137, 140, 142, 158, 160, 163, 166, 171–91 impropriety 89, 110, 118, 121, 122, 125, 126, 140, 146, 153 injustice 158, 166, 174, 187, 189 intersubjectivity/intersubjective 5, 6, 11, 51, 53, 61, 69, 73, 74, 76, 86, 88, 89, 96, 98–102, 105, 108, 112, 119, 123, 125–129, 133, 140, 142, 143, 146, 160, 190 judgment VII, 32, 38, 62, 74, 85, 86, 158– 166, 170–172, 177, 178, 181–191 justice 7, 100, 104, 105, 132, 135, 136, 140, 153, 157–191 moral sense 4–6, 10, 16, 31–38, 50, 53– 55, 58–63, 71, 78, 96–101, 141–146 Moral Sentimentalism VII, 6, 14, 32, 49, 53, 100, 104, 113, 115, 118, 124–127, 130, 133–137, 142, 147, 157, 159, 170, 175, 176, 189–191 narration/narrative 5–7, 43, 44–46, 63, 78, 84–88, 98, 107, 108, 115–156, 174–190 natural affection 19–28, 30–38, 40, 41, 45, 46, 59, 61, 132, 141, 144, 146, 160, 164, 171 ontology/ontological 13, 18, 31, 48, 51, 61, 76, 77, 132 partiality/partial 30, 31, 38, 41, 44, 47, 58, 73, 74, 77, 119, 125, 126, 145, 160, 168, 173, 183, 186, 187 Platonism/Platonic 9, 15, 28, 36, 42, 43, 47, 48, 86, 95, 96, 143 poetry/poet 3, 7, 13, 40, 41, 45, 47, 78, 79, 83, 107, 111–113 poetics VII, 1, 5, 6, 39, 53, 82–89, 98, 99, 104–113 politeness/polite 13, 14, 130, 143–147, 178, 179 propriety 1, 64, 87–91, 94–98, 110, 117, 120–129, 132, 137, 140, 142, 146, 153

rationalism 14, 38, 45, 62, 96, 144, 147, 153, 156, 158–165, 170–173, 175– 177, 186, 190, 191 realism 19, 32, 40, 41, 46, 50, 56, 66, 78, 82, 105–108, 110, 158, 175–178, 185, 186, 190 reason/reasonable 6, 7, 14, 16, 18, 20, 21, 24, 25, 32, 33, 38, 39, 41–48, 55, 58, 62, 65, 66, 73, 75, 76, 94, 95, 135, 144, 146, 147, 156, 158–163, 165, 169–177, 180–191 religion/religious 25–27, 29–31, 33, 58, 61, 98, 131, 134–136, 168, 183 Romanticism VII, 1, 2, 6, 83, 98, 111– 113, 118, 152–155 scepticism 33, 53, 88, 135, 177 scripture → bible selfhood/self 2, 5, 13–22, 29, 30, 42–46, 65–67, 69, 73, 83, 92–94, 96, 109, 110, 113, 126, 133, 134, 143, 150– 152, 166–170, 172, 173 selfishness/self-love 21, 22, 55, 60, 63, 93, 134, 146, 161, 163–173, 185–188 semiosis/semiotic 5, 8, 11, 51, 56, 68, 103, 104 sensibility 4–7, 13, 14, 83, 110–113, 115– 118, 120–126, 129–156, 170, 174, 177–180 sensus communis → common sense soliloquy 13–22, 30, 38, 41–45, 49, 50, 52, 64–67, 92, 94, 170 Stoicism/Stoic 4, 7–10, 14–28, 34, 38, 41, 42, 62, 65, 67, 89–96, 101, 118–120, 167, 173, 177, 188 subjectivity 15, 29, 30, 54, 56, 67, 152, 177 theatre 39, 59, 79, 81, 82, 84–91, 94, 97, 99, 100, 102, 104, 109, 120–123, 127, 128, 131, 133, 175 theology/theological 10, 22, 23, 26–28, 35, 50–52, 62, 101, 115, 132 tragedy/tragic 6, 39, 59, 60, 63, 64, 79, 81, 84–90, 97, 99–105, 110, 120–123, 125